I. 


(1     <9 


i^.'^ri"---:     ■•    -...-*■.  :-'V.V;v  :>*£*■■    -i-:v> 

■ 


LW  AUDLEY'S  Secket  ! 


BY  M.  E.  BRADDON, 


AUTHOR  OF  "LADY  LISLE,"  "AURORA  FLOYD,"  "JOHN 

MARCHMONyS  LEGACY,"  "THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE 

VULTURE,"  "RALPH,  THE  BAILIFF,"  ETC. 


l£pi 


MOBILE: 

S.   II.   G  EL. 

1864 


If 
ft 

11 


Farrow  &  Dennett,  Printers,  Mobile. 


U,..  .   >Uiy^....03J^,..^ 


Lady  Audlets  Secret! 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "LADY  LISLE,"  "AURORA  FLOYD,"  "JOHN 
MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY,"  ETC. 


MOBILE  s 

S.   H.   QOETZEL 

1864 


LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET. 

BT  THB  AUTHOR  OT  "LADT  LISLE,"  "AURORA  FLOYD,"  ITO. 


CHAPTER  I, 

LUCV. 


It  lay  down  in  a  hollow,  rich  with  fine  old  timber  and  luxuriant  pas- 
tures; and  you  came  upon  it  through  an  avenue  of  limes,  bordered  on 
either  side  by  meadows,  over  the  high  hedges  of  which  the  Oattle  looked 
inquisitively  at  you  as  you  passed,  wondering^  perhaps,  what  you  wanted  ■ 
for  there  was  no  thoroughfare,  and  unless  you  were  going  to  the  Court 
you  had  no  business  there  at  all. 

At  the  end  of  this  avenue  there  was  an  old  arch  and  a  clock  tower, 
with  a  stupid,  bewildering  clock,  which  had  only  one  hand;  and  which 
jumped  straight  from  one  hour,  to  the  next,  and  was  therefore  always  in 
extremes.  Through  this  arch  you  walked  straight  into  the  gardens  of 
Audley  Court. 

A  smooth  lawn  lay  before  you,  dotted  with  groups  of  rhododendrons, 
which  grew  in  more  perfection  here  than  anywhere  else  in  the  county. 
To  the  right  there  were  the  kitchen  gardens,  the  fish-pond,  and  an  orchard 
bordered  by  a  dry  moat,  and  a  broken  ruin  of  a  wall,  in  some  places 
thicker  than  it  was  high,  and  everywhere  overgrown  with  trailing  ivy, 
yellow  stonecrop,  and  dark  moss.  To^the  left  t'.iero  was  a  broad  gravelled 
walk,  down  which,  years  ago,  when  the  place  had  been  a  convent,  the 
quiet  nuns  had  walked  hand  in  hand;  a  wall  bordered  with  espaliers,  and 
shadowed  on  one  side  by  goodly  oaks,  which  shut  out  the  flat  landscape, 
and  circled  in  the  house  and  gardens  with  a  darkening  shelter. 

The  house  faced  the  arch,  and  occupied  three  sides  of  a  quadrangle. 
It  was  very  old,  and  very  irregular  and  rambling.  The  windows  were 
uneven;  some  small,  some  large,  some  with  heavy  stone  mullions  and 
rich  stained  glass;  others  with  frail  lattices  that  rattled  in  every  breeze; 
others  so  modern  that  they  might  have  been  added  only  yesterday. 
Great  piles  of  chimneys  rose  up  here  and  there  behind  the  pointed  gables, 
and  seemed  as  if  they  were  so  broken  down  by  age  and  long  service,  that 
they  must  have  fallen  but  for  the  straggling  iry  which,  crawling  up  tho 
walls,  and  trailing  even  over  the  roof,  wound  itself  about  them  and  sup- 
ported  them.  The  principal  door  was  squeezed  into  a  comer  of  a  turret 
at  one  angle  of  the  building,  as  if  it  were  in  hiding  from  dangerous 


..■D'f  a;  DLEY'S  SECREt 

irs,  and  wished  to  keep  itself  a  Secret— a  noble  door  for  all  that— 

■  1  with  great  square-headed  iron  nails,  and  so  thick 

iron  knocker  struck  upon  it  with  a  muffled  sound^ and  the. 

ring  bell  tha'1  dangled  in  a  corner  among  the  ivy,  lest 

i'  the  knocking  Bhould  never  penetrate  the  stronghold. 

rlorious  old  place.     A   place  that  visitors  fell  into  raptures  with; 

feelii  ing  wish  to  have  done*with  life,  and  to  stay  there  forever. 

staring  into   the  cool   lish-ponds,  and  counting  the  hubbies  as  the  roach 

to  the  surface  of  the  water.     A'  spot  in  which  peace  seemed 

A  en  ii p  her  abode,  setting  her  soothing  hand  on  every  tree  and 

r;  on  the  still  ponds  and   quiet   alleys;  the  shady  corners- of  the 

8;  the  deep  window- seafe  behind  the  painted  glass; 

the  low  meadows  and  the  stately  avenues — ay,  even  upon  the  stagnant 

well,   which,    cool   and   sheltered  as   all   else  in  the  old  place,  hid  itself 

in  a  shrubbery  behind  the  gardens,   with  an  idle  handle  that  was 

and  a  lazy  rope  so  rotten  that  the  pail  had  broken  away 

from  it.  and  had  fallen  into  the  water. 

A  noble  pla$e;  inside  as  well  as  out,' a  noble  place — a  house  in  which 
von  incontinently  lost,  yourself  if  ever  you  were  so  rash  as  to  attempt 
inetrate  its  mysteries  alone;  a  house  in  which  no  one  room 
had  any  sympathy  with  another,  every  chamber  running  off  at  a  tangent 
into  an  inner  chamber,  and  through  that  down  some  narrow  staircase 
ig  to  a  door  which,  in  its  turn,  led  back  into  that  very  part  of  the 
house  from  which  you  thought  yourself  the  farthest;  a  house  that  could 
never  have  been  planned  by  any  mortal  architect,  but  must  have  been 
the  handiwork  of  that  good  old  builder — Time,  who,  adding  a  room  one- 
and  knocking  down  a  room  another  year,  toppling  over  a  chimney 
coeval  with  the  Plantagenets,  and  setting  up  one  in  the  style  of  the 
Tudors;  shaking  down  a  bit  of  Saxon  wall  there,  and  allowing  a  Nor- 
man arch  to  stand  here;  throwing  in  a  row  of  high  narrow  windows  in 
the  reign  of  Qu.-en  Anne,  and  joining  on  a  dining-room  after  the  fashion 
of  the  time  of  Hanoverian  George  I.  to  a  refectory  that  had  been  standing 
the  Conquest,  had  contrived  in  some  eleven  centuries,  to  run  up 
such  a  mansion  as  was  not  elsewhere  to  be  met  with  throughout  the 
«■(  tunty  of  Essex.  Of  course,  in  such  a  house,  there  were  secret  chambers ; 
the  Utile  daughter  of  the  present  owner,  Sir  Michael  Audley,  had  fallen 
nt  upon  the  discovery  of  one.  A  board  had  rattled  under  her 
feet  in  the  great  nursery  where  she  played,  and  on  attention  being  drawn 
to  it.  it  was  found  to  be  loose,  and  so  removed,  revealing  a  ladder,  lead- 
in-:  to  a  hiding-place  between  the  floor  of  the  nursery  and  the  ceiling  of 
the  room  below — a  hiding-place  so  small  that  he  who  had  hid  there  must 
have  crouched  on  his  hands  and  knees  or  lain  at  full  length,  and  yet  large 
enough  to  contain  a  quaint  old  carved  oak  chest  half  filled  with  priests' 
vestments  which  had  been  hidden  away,  no  doubt,  in  those  cruel  days 
when  the  life  of  a  man  was  in  danger  if  he  was  discovered  to  have 
harbored  a  Roman  Catholic  priest,  or  to  have  had  mass  said  in  his  house. 
The  broad  outer  moat  was  dry  and  grass-grown,  and  the  laden  trees 
of  the  orchard  hung  over  it  with  gnarled,  straggling  branches  that  drew 


LAP*  All.',  I  iiKT.  5 

fantastical  shadows  upon  the  green  slope.  Within  this  moat  there  was, 
as  I  have  said,  the  fish-pond — a  sheet  of  water  that  extended  the  whole 
length  of  the  garden,  and  bordering  whieh  there  was  an  avenue  called 
the  lime-tree  walk;  an  avenue  so  shaded  from  the  sun  and  sky.  so  sen 
from  observation  by  the  thick  shelter  of  the  over-arching  trees,  that  it 
seemed  a  chosen  place  for  secret  meetings  or  for  stolen  interviews;  a 
place  in  which  a  conspiracy  might  have  been  planned  or  a  lover's  vow 
registered  with  equal  safety;  and  yet  it  was  scarcely  twenty  paces  from 
the  liouse. 

.At  the  end  of  this  dark  arcade  then-  was  the  shubbery.  where,  half 
buried  among  the  tangled  branches  and  the  neglected  weeds,  stood  the. 
rusty  wheel  of  that  old  well  of  whieh  I  have  spoken.  It  had  bi 
good  service  in  its  time,  no  doubt;  and  busy  nuns  have  perhaps  drawn 
the  cool  water  with  their  own  fair  hands;  but  it  had  fallen  into  disuse 
now,  and- scarcely  any  one  at  Audley  Court  knew  whether  the  spring 
hud  dried  up  or  not.  But  sheltered  as  was  the  solitude  of  this'  Ijme-tree 
walk,  I  doubt  very  much  if  it  was  over  put  to  any  romantic  uses.  Often 
in  the  cool  of  the  evening  Sir  Michael  Audley  would  stroll  up  and  down 
smoking  his  cigar,  with  his  dogs  at  his  heels,  and  his  pretty  yourig  wife 
dawdling  by  his  side;  but  in  about  ten  minutes  the  baronet  -and  his  com- 
panion would  grow  tired  of  the  rustling  limes  and  the  still  water,  hidden 
under  the  spreading  leaves  of  the  water-lilies,  and  the  long  green  vista 
with  the  broken  well  at  the  end,  and  would  stroll  back  to  the  drawing- 
room,  where  my  lady  played  dream}'  melodies  by  Beethoven  and  Men- 
delssohn till  her  husband  fell  asleep  in  his  easy  chair. 

Sir  Michael  Audley  was  fifty-six  years  of  age,  and  he  had  married  a 
second  wife  three  months  after  his  fifty-fifth  birthday.  He  was  a  big 
man,  tall  and  stout,  with  a  deep  sonorous  voice,  handsome  black  eves, 
and  a  white  beard — a  w  i.ite  beard  which  made  him  look  venerable 
against  his  will,  for  ho  was  as  active  as  a  boy,  and  one  of  the  hardest 
riders  in  the  county.  For  seventeen  years  he  had  been  a  widower  with 
an  only  child,  a  daughter,  Alicia  Audley,  now  eighteen,  and  by  no  means 
too  well  pleased  at  having  a  step-mother  brought  home  to  the  Court :  for 
Miss  Alicia  had  reigned  supreme  in  her  father's  house  sinc,e  her  earliest 
childhood,  and  had  carried  the  keys,  and  jingled  them  in  the  pockets  of 
her  silk  aprons,  and  IOst  them  in  the  shrubbery,  and  dropped  them  into 
the  pond, -and  given  all  manner  of  trouble  about  them  from  the  hour  in 
which  she  entered  her  (Seeps,  ami  had  on  that  account  deluded  herself  into 
the  sincere  belief  that  for  the  whole  of  that  period  she  had  been  keeping 
house. 

But  Miss  Alicia's  day  was  over;  and  now.  when  she  a.ske.1  anything 
of  the  housekeeper,  the  housekeeper  would  tell  her  that  she  would  speak 
to  my  lady,  or  she  would  consult  my  lady,  and  if  my  lady  pleased  it 
should  lie  done.  So  the  baronet's  daughter,  who  was  an  excellent  horse- 
woman and  a  very  clever  artist,  spent  most  of  her  time  out  of  doors, 
riding  about  th  nes,  and  sketching  the  cottage  children,  and  the 

«  r  of  animal  life  that  came  in 

tier  wav.  ■  r  face  with  a  sulky  determination  against  any  intsmaoy 


g  \]>Y  Al  D 

between  I.  rselfanfl  the  baronet's  youpg  wife;  and  amiable  as  that  lady 

v, as.  she  found  it  quite  impossible  to  overcome  Miss  Alicia's  prejudices 
and  d  convince  the  spoilt  girl  that  she  had  not  done  her  a 

cruel  injury  by  marrying  Sir  Michael  Audley. 

The  truth  was  that  Lady  Audley  had,  in  becoming  the  wife  of  ':ir 
Michafel,  made  one  pf those  apparently  advantageous  matches  which  are 
apt  to  draw  upon  a  woman  the  envy  and  hatred  of  her  sex.  She  had 
into  the  neighborhood  as  a  governess  in  the  family  of.a  Surgeon  in 
,xhe  village  near  Audley  Court  No  one*  knew  any  thing  of  her  except 
•  in  answer  to  an  advertisement  which  Mr.  Dawson,  the 
Burgeon,  had  inserted  in  the  Times.  She  came  from  London;  and  the 
reference  she  puve  was  to  a  lady  at  a  school  at  Brompton,  where 
she  had  once  been  ft  teacher.  But  this  reference  vr$s  so  satisfactory  that 
none  ether  was  needed,  and  Miss  Lucy  Graham  was  received  by  the 
surgeon  as  the  instructress  of  his  daughters.  Hor  accomplishments  were 
so  brilliant  and  numerous,  that  it  seemed  strange  that  ahe  should  have 
answered  an  advertisement  offering  such  very  moderate  terms  of  re- 
muneration as  those  named  by  Mr.  Dawson;  but  Miss  Graham  seemed 
perfectly  well  satisfied  with  her  situation,  and  she  taught  the  girls  to  play 
sonatas  by  Beethoven,  and  to  paint  from  nature  after  Creswick,  and 
walked  through  the  dull,  out-of-the-way  village  to  the  humble  little  church 
three  times  every  sunday,  as  contentedly  as  if  she  had  no  higher  aspira- 
tion in  the  world  than  to  do  so  all  the  rest  of  her  life. 

People  who  observed  this  accounted  for  it  by  saying  that  it  was  apart 
of  her  amiable  and  gentle  nature  always  to  be  light-hearted,  happy,  and 
contented  under  any  circumstances. 

Wherever  she  went  she  seemed  to  take  joy  and  brightness  with  her. 
In  the  cottages  of  the  poor  her  fair  face  shone  like  a  sunbeam.  She 
would  sit  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  talking  to  some  old  woman,  and 
apparently  as  pleased  with  the  admiration  of  a  toothless  crone  as  if  she 
had  been  listening  to  the  compliments  of  a  marquis;  and  when  she 
tripped  away,  leaving  nothing  behind  her  (for  her  poor  salary  gave  no 
seope  to  her  benevolence),  the  old  woman  would  burst  out  into  senile 
raptures  with  her  grace,  her  beauty,  and  hor  kindliness,  such  as  she  never 
bestow.d  upon  the  vicar's  wife,  who  half  fed  and  clothed  her.  For  you 
Miss  Lucy  Graham  was  blessed  with  that  magic  power  of  fascination 
by  which  a  woman  can  charm  with  a  word  or  intoxicate  with  a  smile. 
Every  one  loved,  admired;  and  praised  her.  The  boy  who  opened  tho 
five-barred  gate  that  stood  in  her  pathway  ran  home  to  his  mother  to 
tell  of  her  pretty  looks,  and  the  sweet  voice  in  which  she  thanked  him 
for  the  little  service.  The  verger  at  the  church  who  ushered  her  into 
the  surgeon's  pew;  the  vicar  who  saw  the  soft  blue  eyes  uplifted  to  his 
face  as  he  preached  his  simple  sermon;  the  porter  from  the  railway 
station  who  brought  her  songetimes  a  letter  or  a  parcel,  and  who  never 
looked  ft5r  reward  from  her;  her  employer;  his  visitors;  her  pupils; 
the  servants ;  every  body,  high  and  low,  united  in  declaring  that  Lucy 
Graham  was  the  sweetest  girl  that  ever  lived.     • 

Perhaps  it  was  the  rumor  of  this  which  penetrated  into  the  quiet  cham- 


•     LM>Y;AUDLEY'S  SECRET.  ■  7 

bers  of  Audlcy  Court;  or  perhaps  it  Was  the  sight  of  her  pretty  face, 
looking  over  the  surgeon's  high  pew  every  Sunday  morning;  however 
it  was,  it  was  certain  that  Sir  Michael  Audley  suddenly  experienced  a 
strong  desire  to  be  better  acquainted  with  Mr.  Dawson's  governess. 

Jle  had  only  to  hint  his  wish  to  the  worthy  doctor  for  a  little  party 
to  be  got  up,  to  which  the  vicar  and  his  wife,  and  the  baronet  and  his 
daughter,  were  invited. 

That  one  quiet  evening  sealed*  Sir  Michael's  fate.  He  could  no  more 
resist  the  tender  fascination  of.  those  soft  and  melting  blue  eyes;  the 
graceful  beauty  of  that  slender  throat  and  drooping  head,  with  its  wealth 
of  showering  flaxen  curls;  the  low  music  of  that  gentle  voice;  the  per- 
fect harmony  which  pervaded  every  charm,  and  made  all  doubly  charm- 
ing in  this  woman;  than  he  could  resist  his  destiny.  Destiny!  Whv, 
she  was  his  destiny!  He  had  never  loved  before.  What  had  b/eeh  his 
marriage  with  Alicia's  mother  but  a  dull,  jog-trot  bargain  made  to  keep 
somo  estate  in  the  family  that  would  have  been  just  as  well  out  of  it  ? 
What  had  been  his  love  for  his  first  wife  but  a  poor,  pitiful  smouldering 
spark,  too  dull  to  be  extinguished,  too, feeble  to  burn*?  But  this  was 
love — this  fever,  this  longing,  this  restless,  uncertain,  miserable  hesita- 
tion; these  cruel  fears  that  his  ago  was  an  insurmountable  barrier  to  his 
happiness;  this  sick  hatred  of  his  white  beard;  this  frenzied  wish  to  be 
young  again,  with  glistening  raven  hair,  and  a  slim  waist,  such  as  he  had 
had  twenty  years  before ;  these  wakeful  nights  and  melancholy  days,  so 
gloriously  brightened  if  he  chanced  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  sweet  face 
behind  the  window  eurtains  as  he  drove  past  the  surgeon's  house-  all 
these  signs  gave  token  of  the  truth,  and  told  only  too  plainly  that,  at 
the.  sober  age  of  fi%-fi*ve,  Sir  Michael  Audley  had  fallen  ill  of  the  ter- 
rible fever  called  love. 

I  do  not  think  that  throughout  his  courtship  the  baronet  once  calculated 
upon  his  wealth  or  his  position  as  reasons  for  his  success.  If  he  ever 
remembered  these  things,  he  dismissed  the  thought  of  them  with  a  shud- 
der. It  pained  him  too  much  to  believe  for  a  moment  that  anv  on< 
lovely  and  innocent  could  value  herself  against  a  splendid  house  or  a 
good  old  title.  No;  his  hope  was  that  as  her  life  had  been  most  likeh 
one  of  toil  and  dependence,  and  as  she  whs  very  young  (nobody  exactly 
knew  her  age,  but  she  looked  little  more  than  twenty),  she.  might  never 
formed  any  attachment,  and  that  he.  1  icing  the  first  to  woo  her, 
might  by  tender  attentions,  by  generous  watchfulness,  by  a  love  which 
should  recall  to  her  the  father  she  had  lost,  and  by  a  protecting  care  that 
should  make  him  net  D  her,  win  her  young  heart,  and  obtain  from 

her  fresh  and  earliest  love  alone  the  promise  of  hi  r  hand.  It  was  a  \ 
romantic  day  dream,  no  doubt;  but,  for  all  that,  it  seemed  in  a  verv  lair 
way  to  be  realized.  Luc)  Graham  appeared  by  no  means  to  dislike  the 
baronet's  attentions.  There  was  nothing  whatever  in  her  manner  that 
betrayed  the  shallow  artifices  employed  by  '<*■  woman  who  wishes  to  cap- 
tivate.a  rich  man.  She  was  so  accustomed  to  admiration  from  every 
one.  high  and  low,  that  Sir  Michael's  conduct  made  vary  little  impres- 
sion upon  her.     Again,  he  had  been  so  many  years  a  widower  that  | 


8  LAbY  A!  : 'LEY'S  SECRET. 

pie  had  given  up  the  idea  of  his  over  marrying  again.'  .  At  last,  however, 
Mrs.  Dawson  spoke  subjeoti     The  surgeon's  Vnfe 

was  sitting  in  the  school-room  busy  at  work,  while  Lucy  was  putting  the 
(hushing  touches  to  some  water-color  sketches  done  by  her  pupils. 

"  Do  you  know,  my  dear  Miss  Graham,"  said  Mrs.  Dawson,  "I  think  ' 
you  ougnl  ider  yourself  a  remarkably  lucky  girl  " 

The  governess  lifted  Ker  head  from  its  stooping  attitude,  and  stared 
wonderingly  at  her  employer,  shaking  back  a  shower  of  curls.  They 
were  the  most  wonderful  curls  in  the  world — soft  and  feathery,  always 
floating  away  from  her  face,  and  making  a  pale  halo  round  her  head 
when  the  sunlight  shone  through  them. 

••  What  do  you  mean,  my  dear  Mrs.  Dawson?1'  she  asked,  dipping  her 
carael's-hair  brush  into  the  wet  aquamarine  upon  the  j>alette,  and  pois- 
ing it  carefully  before  putting  in  the  delicate  streak  of  purple  which  was 
to  brighten  the  horizon  in  her  pupil's  sketch. 

"Why.  1  mean,  my  dear,  that  it  only  rests  with  yourself  to  become 
Lady  Audley,  and  the  Mistress  of  Audley  Court." 

Lucy  Graham  dropped  the  brush  upon  the  picture,  and  flushed  scarlet 
to  the  roots  of  her  fair  hair;  and  then  grew  pale  again,  far  paler  than 
Mrs   Dawson  had  ever  seen  her  before. 

••  My  deaf  don't  agitate  yourself,"  said  the  surgeon's  wife,  soothingly; 
"  you  know  that  nobody  asks  you  marry  Sir  Michael  unless  you  wish. 
Of  course  it  would  be  a  magnificent  match ;  he  has  a  splendid  income, 
and  is  one  of  the  most  generous  of  men.  Your  position  would  be  very 
high,  and  you  would  be  enabled  to  do  a  great  deal  of  good  ;  but,  as  I  said 
before,  you-must  be  entirely  guided  by  your  own  feelings.  Only  one 
thing  I  must  say,  and  that  is  that  if  Sir  Michael's  attaptions  are  not  agree- 
able to  you,  it  is  really  scarcely  honorable  to  encourage  him." 

-i  His  attentions — encourage  himj"  muttered  Lucy,  as  if  the  words  be- 
wildered her.  "  Pray,  pray  don't  talk  to  me,  Mrs.  Dawson.  I  had  no 
idea  of  this.  It  is  the  last  thiug  that  would  have  occurred  to  me."  She 
leaned  her  elbows  on  the  drawing-board  before  her,  and  clasping  her 
hands  over  her  face,  seemed  for  some  minutes  to  be  thinking  deeply. 
She  wore  a  narrow  black  ribbon  round  her  neck,  with  a  locket,  or  a  cross, 
or  a  miniature,  perhaps,  attached  to  it;  but  whatever  the  trinket  was, 
she  always  kept  it  hidden  under  her  dress.  Once  or  twieo,  while  she  sat 
silently  thinking, 'she  removed  one  of  her  hands  from  before  her  face, 
and  fidgeted  nervously  with  the  ribbon,  clutching  at  it  with  a  half-angry 
gesture,  and  twisting  it  backward  and  forward  between  her  fingers. 

"  I  think  some  people  are  born  to  be  unlucky,  Mrs.  Dawson,"  she  said, 
by-and-by ;  "it  would  be  a  great  deal  too  much  good  fortune  for  me  to 
become  Lady  Audley." 

She  said  this  with  so  much  bitterness  in  her  tone,  that  the  surgeon's 
wife  looked  up  at  her  with  surprise." 

"You  unlucky,  my  dear,"  she  exclaimed.  "I  think  you're  the  last 
person  who  ought  to  talk  like  that — you,  such  a  bright,  happy  creature, 
that  it  does  every  one  good  to  see  you.  I'm  sure  1  don't  know  what  we 
■shall  do  if  Sir  Michael  robs  us  of  von." 


LAm    A  RET.  V) 

After  this  conversation  they  often  spoke  upon  the  subject,  and  Lucy 
never  again  showed  any  emotion  whatever  when  the  baronet's  admira- 
tion for  her  was  canvassed.  It  was  a  tacitly  understood  tiling  in  the  sur- 
geon's family  that  whenever  Sir  Michael,  proposed,  the  governess  would 
.quietly  accept  him  ;  and,  indeed,  the  simple  Dawsons  would  have  thought 
it  something  more  than  madness  in  a  penniless  girl  to  reject  such  an  offer. 

So  one  misty  August  evening  Sir  Michael,  sitting  opposite  to  Lucy 
Graham  at  a  window  in  the  surgeon's  little  drawing-room,  took  an  op- 
portunity while  the  family  happened  by  some  accident  to  be  absent  from 
the  room,  of  speaking  upon  the  subject  nearest  to  his  heart.  Ho  made 
the  governess,  in  few  but  solemn  words,  an  offer  of  his  hand.  There  wa» 
something  almost  touching  in  the  maimer  and  tone  in  which  he  spoke  to 
her — half  in  deprecation,  knowing  that  he  could  hardly  expect  to  be  the 
choice  of  a  beautiful"  young  girl,  and  praying  rather  that  she.  would  reject 
him,  even  though  she  broke  his  heart  by  doing  so,  than  that  she  should 
accept  his  offer  if  she  did  not  love  him. 

"  1  scarcely  think  there  is  a  greater  sin,  Lucy,"  he  said  solemnly,  "than 
that  of  the  woman  who  marries  a 'man  she  does  not  love.  You  are  so 
precious  to  me,  my  beloved,  that  deeply  as  my  heart  is  set  on  this,  and 
bitter  as  the  mere  thought  of  disappointment  is,  to  me,  I  would  not  have 
you  commit  such  a  sin  for  any  happiness  of  mine.  If  my  happiness 
could  be  achieved  by  such  an  act,  which  it  could  not — which  it  never 
could"  he  repeated  earnestly,  "  nothing  but  misery  can  result  from  a 
marriage  dictated  by  any  motive  but  truth  and  love." 

Liny  Graham  was  not  looking  at  Sir  Michael,  but  straight  out  into  the 
mist_\  twilight  and  the  dim  landscape  far  away  beyond  the  little  garden. 
The  baronet  tried  to  see  her  face,  but  her  profile  was  turned  to  him  and 
he  could  not  discover  the  expression  of  her  eyes.  If  he  could  have  done 
so,  he  would  have  seen  a  yearning  gaze  which  seemed  as  if  it  would  have 
pierced  the  far  obscurity  and  looked  away — away  into  another  world. 

"  Lucy,  you  heard  me  ?"  > 

u  Yes,"  she  said  gravely  ;  not  coldly,  or  in  any  way  as  if  she  were  of- 
fended at  his  words.  ' 

"  And  your  answer?" 

She  did  not  remove  her  gaze  from  the  darkening  country  side,  but  for 
some  moments  was  quite  silent;  then  turning  to  him  with  a  sudden  pas- 
sion in  her  maimer,  that  lighted  up  her  face  with  a  new  and  wonderful 
beauty  which  the  baronet  perceived  even  in  the  growing  twilight,  she  fell 
on  her  knees  at  his  feet. 

"  No,  Lucy ;  no,  no !"  he  cried,  vehemently,  "  not  hero,  not  here  !" 

M  Yes.  here,  here,"  she,  said,  the  strange  passion  which  agitated  her 
making  her  voice  sound  shrill  and  piercing — not  loud,  but  preternatural- 
ly  distinct;  "here,  and  nowhere  else.  How  good  you  are— how  noble 
and  how  generous  !  Love  you  !  Why,  there  are  women  a  hundred  times 
my  superiors  in  beauty  and  in  goodness  who  might  love  you  dearly;  but 
you  ask  too  much  of  me.  You  ask  too  muqhofmtf/  Remember  what ' 
my  life  has  been  ;  only   remember  thai  i    my   very   babyhood  1 

have  ■  i  any  thing  but  poverty.     My  father  was  a  gentleman  : 


10  LAI' 

clever,  accomplished,  handsome— but  poor— and  what  ;t  pitiful  vretfih. 

poverty  made  <>f  him.     My  mother But  do  not  let  me  speak  of  her. 

Poverty,  poverty,  trfals,  vexations,  humiliations,  deprivations.  Von 
cannot  tell;  you," who  are.  among  those  for  whom  life  is  so  smooth  and 
easy,  you  can  never  giiess  what  is  endured  by  such  as  we.  Do  not  ask 
auch  of  inc.  then.  I  cannot  be  disinterested  ;  I  cannot  be  blind  to 
the  advantages  of.suoh  an  alliance.     I  cannot,  I  cannot !" 

Beyond  her  agitation  and  her  passionate  vehemence,  there  is  an  unde- 
fined something  in  her  manner  which  fills  the  baronet  with  a  vague  alarm. 
She  is  still  on  the  ground  at  his  feet,  crouching  rather  than  kneeling,  her 
thin  white  dress  clinging  about  her,  her  pale  hair  streaming  over  her 
shoulders,  her  great  blue  eyes  glittering  in  the  duslc,  and  her  hands 
clutching  at  the" black  ribbon  about  her  throat,  as  if  it  had  been  strang- 
ling her. 

"  Don't  ask  too  much  of  me,"  she  kept  repeating  ;  "  I  have  been  selfish 
from  my  babyhood." 

"  Lucy,  Lucy,  speak  plainly.     Do  you  dislike  me  V\ 
.    "  Dislike  you  !     No,  no !" 

"  But  is  there  any  one  else  whom  you  love  V 

She  laughed  aloud  at  \his  question.  "  I  do  not  love  any  one  in  the 
world,"  she  answered. 

He  was  glad  of  her  reply  ;  and  yet  that  and  the  strange  laugh  jarred 
upon  his  feelings.  He  was  silent  for  some  moments,  and  then  said  with 
a  kind  of  effort — 

"  Well,  Lucy,  I  will  not  ask  too  much  of  you.  I  dare  say  I  am  a  ro- 
mantic old  fool ;  but  if  you  do  not  dislike  me,  and  if  you  do  not  love 
any  one  else,  I  see  no  reason  why  we  should  not  make  a  very  happy 
couple.     Is  it  a  bargain,  Lucy  1" 

«  Yes." 

The  baronet  lifted  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  once  upon  the  fore- 
head ;  then  "quietly  bidding  her  good-night,  he  walked  straight  out  of  the 
house. 

He  walked  straight  out  of  the  house,  this  foolish  old  man,  because 
there  was  some  strong  emotion  at  work  in  his  breast — neither  joy  nor 
triumph,  but  something  almost  akin  to  disappointment — some  stifled  and 
unsatisfied  longing  which  lay  heavy  and  dull  at  his  heart,  as  if  he  had 
carried  a  corpse  in  his  bosom.  He  carried  the  corpse  of  that  hope  which 
had  died  at  the  sound  of  Lucy's  words.  All  the  doubts  and  fears  and 
timid  aspirations  were  ended  now.  He  must  be  contented,  like  other 
men  of  his  age,  to  be  married  for  his  fortune  and  his  position. 

Lucy  Graham  went  slowly  up  the  stairs  to  her  little  room  at  the  top 
of  the  house.  She  placed  her  dim  candle  on  the  chest  of  drawers,  and. 
seated  herself  ou  the  edge  of  the  white  bed,  still  and  white  as  the  draper- 
ies hanging  round  her. 

"  No  more  dependence,  no  more  drudgery,  no  more  humiliations," 
she  said  :  "  every  trace  of  the  old  life  melted  away — every  clue  to  iden- 
tify buried  and  forgotten — exept  these,  except  these." 

She  had  never  taken  her  left  hand  from  the  black  ribbon  at  her  throat. 


LAJ)Y  AITDLEY'S  SECRET.  H 

She  drew  it  from  her  bosom  as  she  spoke,  and  looked  at-  the  object  At- 
tached to  it. 

It  was  neither  a  locket,  a  miniature,  nor  a  cross  :  it  wa*  a  ring  wrap- 
ped in  an  oblong  piece  of  paper — the  paper  partly  printtd,  partly  writ- 
ten, yellow  with  age,  and  crumpled  with  much  folding.    I 


CHAPTER  11. 

OX    r.OARD    THE    ARGUS. 

He  threw  the  end  of  his  cigar  into  the  water,  and  leaning  his  elbows 
upon  the  bulwarks,  stared  meditatively  at  the  waves. 

"  How  wearisome  they  are,"  he  said  ;  "  blue  and  green,  and  opal ;  opal, 
and  blue,  and  green ;  all  very  well  in  their  way,  of  course,  but  thres 
months  of  them  are  rather  too  much,  especially " 

He  did  not  attempt  to  finish  his  sentence ;  his  thoughts  seomed  to  wan- 
der in  the  very  midst  of  it,  and  carry  him  a  thousand  miles  or  so  away. 

"  Poor  little  girl,  how  pleased  she'll  be!"  he  muttered,  opening  his 
cigar  case,  and  lazily  surveying  its  contents;  "how  pleased  and  how 
surprised!  Poor  little  girl !  After  three  years  and  a  half,  too;  she  will 
be  surprised." 

He  was  a  young  man  of  about  five-and-twenty,  with  a  dark  face  bronz* 
ed  l>y  exposure  to  the  sun ;  he  had  handsome  brown  oyes,  with  a  razr 
smile  in  them,  that  sparkled  through  the  black  lashes,  and  a  bushv  beard 
and  moustache  that  covered  the  whole  of  the  lower  part  of  his  face.  He 
was  tall  and  powerfully  built;  he  wore  a  loose  ^ray  suit  and  a  felt  hat 
thrown  carelessly  upon  his  black  hair.  His  name  was  George  Talboys, 
and  he  was  alt-cabin  passenger  on  board  the  good  ship  Argus,  laden  with 
Australian  wool,  and  sailing  from  Sydney  to  Liverpool. 

There,  were  few  passengers  in  the  ait-cabin  of  the  Argus.  An  elderly 
wool-stapler  returning  to  his  native  country  with  his  wife  and  daughters, 
after  having  mode  a  fortune  in  the  colonies;  a  govornoss  of  thrce-and- 
thirty  years  of  age,  goiug  home  to  marry  a  mau  to  whom  she  had  boen 
engaged  fifteen  years  ;  the  sentimental  daughter  of  a  wealthy  Australian 
wine  merchant,  invoiced  to  England  to  finish  her  education,  and  f-ieorgu 
Talboys.  were  the  only  first-class  passengers  on  board. 

Tiiis  George  Talboys  was  the  life  and  soul  of  the  vessel;  nohodr  knew 
who  or  what  he  was,  or  where   he  earn  Ut  >  rcrvbody  liked  him. 

lie  sat  at  tin-  bottom  of  the  dinner  table,  ami  assisvd  the  captain  in  do 
ing  th<'  hooori  ol  the  friendly  meal.      He  opoQedttho  champagne  b< 
and  took  wine  with  every  our   present;   he  told  film  I  id  led  tho 

h  himself  with  such  i  peal  that  the  man  must   hai 


12  LADY   Al  DJ  :LT. 

churl  who  could  not  have  laughed  for  pure  sympathy,  lie  was  a  capi- 
tal hand  at  speculation  and  vingt-et-un,  and  all  the  merry  games,  which 
kept  the  little  circle  round  the  cabin  lamp  so  deep  in  innocent  amuse- 
ment, that,  a  hurricane  might  have  howled  overhead  without  their  hearing 

it  he  freefc  •  owiu'd  that  he  had  no  talent  for  whist,  and  that  he 
t  know  h  knight  from  a  castle  upon  the  chess-board.. 

Indeed,  Mr.  Talboys  was  by  no  means  too  learned  a  gentleman.  The 
.pale  governess  had  tried  to  talk  to  him  about  fashionable  literature,  but 
rge  had  only  pulled  his  beard  and  stared  very  hard  at  her,  saying 
occasionally,  "Ah.  yes,  by  Jove!"  and  "To  be  sure,  ah!'.' 

The  sentimental  young  lady,  going.home  to  finish  her  education,  had 
tried  him  with  Shelly  and  Byron,  and  he  had  fairly  laughed  in  her  fece, 
as  if  poetry  were  a  joke.  The  woolstapler  sounded  him  upon  politics, 
but  he  did  pot  seem  very  deeply  versed  in  them;  so  they  let  him  go  his 
own  way,  smoke  hi-;  cigars  and  talk  to  the  sailors,  lounge-  over  the  bul- 
warks and  stare  at  the  water,  and  make  himself  agreeable  to  everybody 
in  his  own  fashion.  But  when  the  Argus  came  to  be  within  about  a 
fortnight's  sail  of  England  everybody  noticed  a  change  in  George  Tal- 
boys.  He  grew  restless  and  fidgety ;  sometimes  so  merry  that  the  cabin 
rang  with  his  laughter;  sometimes  moody  and  thoughtful.  Favorite  as 
he  was  among  the  sailors,  they  were  tired  at  last  of  answering  his  per- 
petual questions  about  the  probable  time  of  touching  land.  Would  it 
l>e  in  ten  days,  in  eleven,  in  twelve,  in  thirteen?  Was  the  wind  favorable? 
How  many  knots  an  hour  was  the  vessel  doing?  Then  a  sudden  passion 
would  seize  him,  and  he  would  stamp  upon  the  deck,  crying  out  that  she 
was  a  rickety  old  craft,  and  that  her  owners  were  swindlers  to  advertise 
her  as  the  fast-sailing  Argus.  She  was  not  fit  tor  passenger  traffic;  she 
was  not  fit  to  carry  impatient  living  creatures,  with  hearts  and  souls; 
she  was  lit  for  nothing  but  to  be  laden  with  bales  of  stupid  wool,  that 
might  rot  on  the  sea  and  be  none  the  worse  for  it. 

The  sun  was  drooping  down  behind  the  waves  as  George  Talboys 
lighted  his  cigar  upon  .this  August  evening.  Only  ten  days  more,  the 
sailors  had  told  him  that  afternoon,  and  they  would  see  the  English 
coast.  'T  will  go  ashore  in  the  first  boat  that  hails  us,"  he  cried;  "I 
will  go  ashore  in  a  cockle-shell.  By  Jove,  if  it  comes  to  that,  I  will 
swim  to  land." 

His  friends  in  the  all-cabin,  with  the  exception  of  the  pale  governess, 
laughed *at  his  infpatience;  she  sighed  as  she  watched  the  young  man, 
abating  at  the  slow  hours,  pushing  away  his  untasted  wine,  flinging 
himself  restlessly  about  upon  the  cabin  sofa,  rushing  up' and  down  the 
companion  ladder,  and  staring  at  the  waves. 

As  the  red  rim  of  the  sun  dropped  into  the  water,  the  governess 
ascended  the  cabin  stairs  for  a  stroll  on  deck,  while  the  passengers  sat 
over  their  wine  below.  She  stopped  when  she  came  up  to  George,  and 
standing  by  his  side,  watched  the  lading  crimson  in  the  western  sky. 

The  lady  was  very  quiet  and  reserved,  seldom  sharing  in  the  after- 
cabin  amusements,  never  laughing,  and  speaking  very  little;  but  she  and 
George  Talboys  had  been  excellent  friends  throughout  the  passage; 


LAD'S   AITDLEY'S  SECR]  ]',) 

"Does  my  cigar  annoy  you.  Miss  Morley?"'  he  said,  taking  it  out  of 
lils  mouth.  . 

"Not  at  all;  pray  do  not  leave  off smoking.  1  only  came  uptolook 
at  the  sunset.     What  a  lovely  eveningl" 

"Yes.  yes,  1  dare  say,",  ho  answered  impatiently;  "  yet  so  long,  so 
long  !  Ten  more  interminable  days  nnd  ten  more  weary  nights  before 
we  land." 

"Yes,"  paid  Miss  Morley,  sighing,     "i)o  you  wish  the  time  shorter  •1" 

"Do  [?"  cried  George  ■ "indeed  I  do.     Don't  you1?" 

"Scarcely." 

"  But  there  is  no  one  you  love  in  England  ?  Is  there  no  one  you  love 
looking  out  for  your  arrival  ?" 

"I  hope  so,"' she  said,  gravely.  They  were  silent  for  some  time,  he 
smoking  his  ■cigar  with  a  furious  impatience,  as  if  he  could  hasten  the 
course  of  the  vessel  by  his  own  restlessness  ;  she.  looking  out  at  the 
waning  light  with  melancholy  blue  eyes  ;  eyes  that  seemed  to  have  faded 
with  poring  over  closely-printed  books  and  difficult  needle-work  ;  eyes 
that  had  faded  a  little,  perhaps,  by  reason  of  tears  secretly  shed  in  the 
dead  hours  of  the  lonely  right. 

"See?"  said  George,  suddenly  pointing  in  another  direction  from  that 
toward  which  Miss  Morley  was  looking,  "  there's  the  new  moon." 

She  looked  up  at  the  pale  crescent,  her  own  face  almost  as  pale  aud  wan. 

"This  is  the  first  time  we  have  seen  it." 

"  We  must  wish  !"  said  George,     "/know  what  /  wish." 

«  What  I" 

"That  we  may  get  home  quickly.'' 

"  My  wish  is  that  we  may  find  no  disappointment  when  we  get  there," 
said  the  governess,  sadly. 

"  Disappointment!1" 

He  started  as  if  he  had  been  struck,  and  asked  what  sho  meant  by 
talking  of  disappointment. 

"  I  mean  this,"  she  said,  speaking  rapidly,  and  with  a  restless  motion 
of  her  thin  hands;  "I  mean  that  as  the  end  of  this  long  voyage  draws 
near  hope  sinks  in  my  heart ;  and  a  sick  fear  comes  over  me  that  at  the 
last  all  may  not  be  well.  The  person  I  go  to  meet  may  be  changed  in 
his  feelings  toward  me;  or  he  may  retain  all  the  old  feeling  until  the 
moment  of  seeing  me,  and  then  lose  it  in  a  breath  at  sight  of  my  poor 
wan  face,  for  I  was  called  a  pretty  girl,  Mr.  Talboys,  when  I  sailed  for 
Sidney,  fifteen  years  ago ;  or  he  may  be  so  changed  by  the  world  as  to 
have  grown  ^elfish  and  mercenary,  and  he  may  welcome  me  for  the  sake 
of  my  fifteen  years'  savings.  Again,  he  may  be  dead.  He  may  have 
been  well,  perhaps,  up  to  within  a  week  of  our  landing,  and  in  that  last 
week  may  have  taken  a  fever,  and  died  an  hour  before  our  vessel  anchors 
in  the  Mersey.  I  think  of  all  these  things,  Mr.  Talboys,  and  act  the 
scenes  over  in  my  mind,  and  feel  the  anguish  of  them  twenty  tin- 
day.  Twenty  times  a  day!"  she  repeated;  "why,  I  do  it  a  thousand 
times  a  day." 

Geonpe  Talboys1  had  stood  motionless  with  bis  cij?nr  in  his  hand. 


14  LADY  AUDLEYS  SECRET. 

listening  to  her  so  intontly  that,  as  she  said  the  last  words,  his  hold  re- 
laxed, Mid  the  ci^'ar  dropped  into  tho  water. 

11 1  wonder,"  she  continued,  more  to  herself  than  to  him,  "  I  wonder, 
looking  back,  to  think  how  hopeful  I  was  when  the  vessel  sailed  ;  I  never 
thought  then  of  disappointment,  but  I  pictured  the  joy  of  meeting, 
imagining  the  very  words  that  would  be  said,  the  very  tones,  the  very 
looks ;  but  for  this  last  month  of  the  voyage,  day  by  day  and  hour  by 
hour,  my  h^art  sinks,  and  my  hopeful  fanci'cs  fade  away,  and  I  dread  the 
end  as  much  as  if  I  knew  that  I  was  going  to  England.to  attend  a  funeral." 

The  young  man  suddenly  changed  his  attitude,  and.  turned  his  face 
full  upon  his  companion,  with  a  look  of  alarm.  She  saw- in  tho  pale 
light  that  tho  color  had  faded  from  his  cheek. 

"  What  a  fool !"  he  cried,  striking  his  clenched  fist  upon  the  side  of 
the  vessel,  "what  a  fool  I  am  to  be  frightened  at  this?  Why  do  you 
eome  and  say  these  things  to  me  ?  Why  do  you  come  and  terrify  me 
ont  of  my  senses,  when  1  am  going  straight  home  to  the  woman  I  love : 
to  a  girl  whoso  heart  is  as  true  as  the  light  of  heaven ;  and  in  whom  I 
no  more  expect  to  find  any  change  than  I  do  to  see  another  sun  rise  in  to<J 
morrow's  sky  ?  Why  .do  you  come  and  try  to  put  such  fancies  into  my 
head  when  1  am  going  home  to  my  darling  wife?" 

"  Your  wife,"  she  said  ;  "  that  is  different.  There  is  no  reason  that 
my  terrors  should  terrify  you.  I  am  going  to  England  to  rejoin  a  man 
to  whom  I  was  engaged  to  be  married  fifteen  years  ago.  He  was  too 
poor  to  marry  then,  and  when  I  was  offered  a  situation  as  governess  in 
a  rich  Australian  family,  I  persuaded  him  to  let  me  accept  it,  so  that  I 
might  loave  him  free  and  unfettered  to  win  his  way  in  the  world,  while 
I  saved  a  little  money  to  help  us  when  we  began  life  together.  I  never 
meant  to  stay  away  so  long,  but  things  have  gone  badly  with  him  in  Eng- 
land. That  is  my  story,  and  you  can  understand  my  fears.  They  need 
not  influence  you.     Mine  is  an  exceptional  case." 

"  So  is  mine ;"  said  George,  impatiently.  "  I  toll  you  that  mine  is  an 
exceptional  oase ;  although  I  swear  to  you  that  until  this  moment,  I  have 
never  known  a  fear  as  to  the  result  of  my  voyage  home.  But  you  are 
right;  your  terrors  have  nothing  to  do  with  me.  You  have  been  away 
fifteen  years ;  all  kinds  of  things  may  happen  in  fifteen  years.  Now  it 
is  only  three  years  and  a  half  this  very  month  since  I  left  England. 
What  can  havo  happened  in  such  a  short  time  as  that?" 

Miss  Morly  looked  at  him  with  a  mournful  smile,  but  did  not  speak. 
His  feverish  ardor,  the  freshness  and  impatience  of  his  nature  were  so 
strange  and  now  to  her,  that  she  looked  at  him  half  in  admiration,  half 
in  pity. 

"  My  pretty  little  wife  !  My  gentle,  innocent,  loving  little  wife  !  Do 
you  know,  Miss  Morly,"  he  s:vid,  with  all  his  old  hopefulness  of  manner, 
•'that  I  left  my  little  girl  asleep,  with  her  baby  in  her  arms,  and  with 
nothing  but  a  few  blotted  lines  to  tell  her  why  her  faithful  husband  had 
deserted  her  ?" 

"  Deserted  her !"  exclaimed  the  governess. 

"  Ye?.     I  was  an  ensign  in  a  cavalry  regiment  when  I  first  met  my 


LADT  AUDJ.!/   o  SECRET.  15 

little  darling.  We  were  nuartcreu  at,  a  stupid  seaport  town,  where  my 
pet  lived  with  her  shabbj  eld  father,  a  halfway  naval  officer;  a  regular 
•  old  humbug,  as  poor  as  Job,  and  with  an  eye  for  nothing  but  the  main 
chance.  I  saw  through  all  his  shallow  tricks  to  catch  one  of  us  fur  his- 
pretty  daughter.  I  saw  all  the  pitiful,  contemptible,  palpable  traps  he 
set  for  us  big  dragoons  to  walk  into.  I  saw  through  his  shabby-genteel 
dinners  and  public  house  port ;  his  fine  talk  of  the  grandeur  of  his  family; 
his  sham  pride  and  independence,  and  the  sham  tears  in  his  bleared  old 
eyes  when  he  talked  of  his  only  child.  He  was  a  drunken  old  hypocrite, 
and  ho  was  ready  to  sell  my  poor  little  girl  to  the  highest  bidder. 
Luckily  for  me,  I  happened  just  then  to  be  tho  highest  bidder;  for  my 
father  is  a  rich  man,  Miss  Morley,  and  an  it  was  love  at  first  sight  on 
both  sides,  my  darling  and  I  made  a  match  of  it.  No  sooner,  however, 
did  my  father  hear  that  I  had  married  a  penniless  little  girl,  the  daughter 
of  a  tipsy  old  half-pay  lieutenant,  than  he  wrote  me  a  furious  letter, 
telling  rne  ho  would  never  again  hold  any  communication  with  me,  and 
that  my  yearly  allowance  would  stop  from  my  wedding-day.  As  there 
was  no  remaining  in  such  a  regiment  as  mine,  with  nothing  but  my  pay 
to  live  on,  and  a  pretty  little  wife  //'keep,  I  sold  out,  thinking  that  be- 
fore the  money  was  exhausted,  I  should  be  sure  to  drop  into  something. 
I  took  my  darling  to  Italy,  and  we  lived  there  in  splendid  style  as  long 
as  my  two  thousand  pounds  lasted ;  but  when  that  began  to  dwindle 
down  to  a  couple  of  hundred  or  so,  we  came  back  to  England,  and  as 
my  darling  had  a  fancy  for  being  near  that  tiresome  old  father  of  herg, 
we  settled  at  the  watering-place  where  he  lived.  Well,  as  soon  as  the 
old  man  heard  that  I  had  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds  left,  he  expressed 
a  wonderful  degree  of  affection  for  us,  and  insisted  on  our  boarding  in 
his  house.  We  consented,  still  to  please  my  darling,  who  had  just  then 
a  peculiar  right  to  have  every  whim  and  fancy  of  her  innocent  heart  in- 
dulged. We  did  board  with  him,  and  finely  he  fleeced  us;  but  when  I 
spoke  of  it  to  my  little  wife,  she  only  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  said 
she  did  not  like  to  be  unkind  to  'poor  papa.'  So  poor  papa  made  away 
with  our  little  stock  of  money  in  no  time;  and  as  I  felt  that  it  was  now 
becoming  necessary  to  look  about  for  something,  I  ran  up  to  London 
and  tried  to  get  a  situation  as  a  clerk  in  a  merchant's  office,  or  as  aooount- 
ant,  or  book-keeper,  or  something  of  that  kind.  But  I  suppose  there  was 
the  stamp  of  a  heavy  dragoon  upon  me,  for  to  do  what  I  would  I  couldn't 
get  anybody  to  believe  in  my  capacity :  and  tired  out,  and  down-hearted, 
I  returned  to  my  darling,  to  find  her  nursing  a  son  and  heir  to  his  father's 
poverty.  Poor  little  girl,  she  was  very  low-spirited;  and  when  I  told 
her  that  my  London  expedition  had  failed,  she  fairly  broke  down,  and 
burst  into  a  storm  of  sobs  and  lamentations,  telling  me  that  I  ought  not 
to  have  married  her  if  I  could  givo'her  nothing  but  poverty  and  misery; 
and  that  I  had  done  her  a  cruel  wrong  in  making  her  my  wife.  By 
heaven !  Miss  Morley,  her  tears  and  reproaches  drove  me  almost  mad; 
and  I  flew  into  a  rage  with  her,  myself,  her  father,  the  world,  and  every- 
body in  it,  and  then  ran  out  of  the  house.  I  walked  about  the  streets  all 
that  day,  half  out  of  my  mind,  and  with  a  strong  inclination  to  throw 


l£  LADY  ATDLEY'S  SECRET. 

myself  into  the  sea,  so  as  to  leave  my  poor  girl  free  to  make  a  better 
match.  'If  I  drown  myself,  her  father  must  support  her,' I  thought;, 
'the  old  hypocrite  could  never  refuse  her  a  shelter';  but  while  1  live  she 
has  no  claim  on  him.'  I  went  down  to  a  rickety  old  wooden  pier,  mean- 
ing to  wait  there  till  it  was  dark,  and  then  drop  quietly  over  the  end  of 
it  into  the  water  ;  but  while  I  sat  there  smoking  my  pipe,  and  staring 
vacantly  at  the  sea-gulls,  two  men  came  down,  and  one  of  them  began 
to  talk  of  the  Australian  gold-diggings,  and  the  great  things  that  were 
to  be  done  there.  It  appeared  that  he  was  going  to  sail  in  a  day  or  two, 
and  he  was  trying  to  persuade  his  companion  to  join  him  in  the  expedition. 

"  I  listened  to  these  men  for  upwards  of  an  hour,  following  them  up 
and  down  the  pier,  with  my  pipe  in  my  mouth,  and  hearing  all  their  talk. 
After  this  I  fell  into  conversation  with  them  myself,  and  ascertained  that 
there  was  a  vessel  going  to  leave  Liverpool  in  three  days,  by  which  ves- 
sel one  of  the  men  was  going  out.  This  man  gave  me  all  the  informa- 
tion I  required,  and  told  me  moreover,  that  a  stalwart  young  fellow 
such  I  was  could  hardly  fail  to  do  well  in  the  diggings.  .The  thought 
flashed  upon  me  80  suddenly,  thsjjkri  grew  hot  and  red  in  the  face,  and 
trembled  in  every  limb  with  excitenrent.  '  This  was  better  than  the  water, 
at  any  rate.  Suppose  I  stole  away  from'my  darling,  leaving  her  safe 
under  her  father's  roof,  and  went  and  made  a  fortune  in  the  new  world, 
and  CAme  back  in  a  twelvemonth  to  throw  it  into  her  lap;  for  I  was  so 
sanguine  in  those  days  that  I  counted  on  making  my  fortune  in  a  year  or 
bo.  I  thanked  the  man  for  his  information,  and  late  at  night  strolled 
homeward.  It  was  bitter  winter  weather,  but  I  had  been  too  full  of  pas- 
sion to  feel  cold,  and  I  walked  through  the  quiet  streets,  with  the  snow 
drifting  in  my  face,  and  a  desperate  hopefulness  in  my  heart.  The  old 
man  was  sitting  drinking  brandy-and-water  in  his  little  dining-room  : 
and  my  wife  was  up-stairs,  sleeping  peacefully,  with  the  baby  on  her 
breast.  I  sat  down  and  wrote  a  few  brief  lines,  which  tojd  her  that  I 
never  had  loved  her  better  than  now  when  I  seemed  to  desert  her  ;  that 
1  was  going  to  try  ray  fortune  in  the  new  world,  and  that  if  I  succeeded 
I  should  come  back  to  bring  her  plenty  and  happiness ;  but  that  if  I 
failed,  I  should  never  look  upon  her  face  again.  I  divided  the  remainder 
of  our  money — something  over  forty  pounds — into  two  equal  portions, 
leaving  one  for  her  and  putting  the  other  in  my  pocket.  I  knelt  down 
and  prayed  for  my  wife  and  child,  wita  my  head  upon  the  white  coun- 
terpane that  covered  them.  I  wasn't  much  of  a  praying  man  at  ordin- 
ary times,  but  God  knows  thai  was  a  heartfelt  prayer.  I  kissed  her  once, 
and  the  baby  once,  and  then  crept  out  of  the  room.  Tho  dining-room 
door  was  open,  and  the  old  man  was  nodding  over  his  paper.  He  looked 
up  as  he  heard  my  step  in  the  passage,  and  asked  me  where  I  was  going. 

4  To  have  a  smoke  in  the  street,  I  answered ;  and  as  this  was  a  com- 
mon habit  of'mine,  he  believed  me.  Three  nights  after  this  I  was  out  at 
sea,  bound  for  Melbourne — a  steerage  passenger,  with  a  digger's  tools 
for  my  baggage,  and  about  seven  shillings  in  my  pocket." 

"  And  you  succeeded  ?"  asked  Miss  Morley. 

"  Not  till  I  had  long  despaired  of  success;  not  until  poverty  and  I  had 


LADI   AUDLI  LET.  17 

become  such  old  companions  mid  bedfellows,  that,  looking  back  at  my 
pact  life,  I  wondered  whether  that  dashing,  reckless,  extravagant,  luxuri- 
ous, champagne-drinking  dragoon  could  have  really  been  the  same  man 
who  sat  on  the  damp  ground  gnaw  ing  a  mouldy  orust  in  the  wilds  of  the 
now  world.  1  clung  to  the  memory  of  my  darling,  and  the  trust  that  I 
ii  her.  love  and  truth,  as  the  one  keystone  that  kept  the  fabric  of  my 
past  life  together — the  one  star  that  lit  the  thick  black  darkness  of  the 
future.  I  was  hail,  fellow  well  met  with  bad  men;  I  was  in  the  centre 
of  riot,  drunkenness,  and  debauchery  ;  but  the  purifying  influence  of  my 
love  safe  from  all.     Thin  and  gaunt,  the  half-starved  shadow  of 

what  1  once  haul  boon,  1  saw  myself  one  day  ia  a  broken  bit  of  a  looking- 
itened  by  my  own  face.  But  I  toiled  on  through  all ; 
through  disappointment  and  u.-pair,  rheumatism,  fever,  starvation,  at 
the  Aery  gates  of  death,  I  toiled  on  steadily  to  the  end;  and  in  the  end 
1  conquered." 

He  was  so  brave  in  his  onergy  and  determination,  in  his  proud  triumph 
of  success,  and  in  the  knowledge  of  the  difficulties  he  had  vanqsished, 
that  the  pale  governess  could  only  look  at  him  in  wondering  admiration. 

"How  brave  you  were?"  she  said. 

"  Brave  !"  he  cried,  with  a  joyous  peal  of  laughter ;  "  wasn't  I  working 
for  my  darling '?  Through  all  the  dreary  time  of  that  probation,  her 
pretty  white  hand  seemed  beckoning  me  onward  to  a  happy  future  '.'■ 
Why,  1  have  seen  her  under  my  wretched  canvas  tent,  sitting  by  my 
side,  with  her  boy  in  her  arms,  as  plainly  as  I  had  ever  seen  her  in  the 
one  happy  year  of  our  wedded  life.  At  iUft  one  dreary  foggy  morning, 
just,  three  months  ago,  with  a  drizzling  rain  wetting  me  to  the  skin,  up 
to  my  neck  in  clay  and  mire,  half-starved,  enfeebled  by  fever,  stiff  with 
rheumatism,  a  monster  nugget  turned  up  my  spade,  and  I  was.  in  one 
minute  the  richest  man  in  Australia.  1  fell  down  on  the  wet  clay,  with 
my  lump  of  gold  in  the  bosom  of  my  shirt,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life,  cried  like  a  child.  I  travelled  posthaste  to  Sydney,  realized  my 
prize,  which  was  worth  upward  of  20,00(M.,  and  a  fortnight  afterward 
took  my  passage  for  England  in  this  vessel;  and  in  ten  days — in  ten 
days  I  shall  see  my  darling." 

"  But  in  all  that  time  did  you  never  write  to  your  wife?" 

"Never,  till  the  night  before  I  left  Sydney.  I  could  not  write  when 
every  thing  looked  so  black.  I  could  not  write  and  tell  her  that  1  was 
fighting  hard  with  despair  aud  death.  I  waited  for  better  fortune,  an<! 
when  that  came.  I  wrote  telling  her  that  I  should  bo  in  England  alrj 
as  soon  as  my  letter,  and  giving  her  an  address  at  a  coffeehouse  in  Lon- 
don where  she  could  write  to  me,  telling  me  where  to  find  her,  though 
she  is  hardly  likely  to  have  left  her  father's  hou- 

He  fell  into  a  reverie  after  this,  and  puffed  meditatively  at  his  cigar. 
His  companion  did  no!  disturb  him.  The  last  ray  of  the  summer  day- 
light had  died  out,  and  the  pale  light  of  the  orescent  moon  only  remained. 

Presently  George  IWboys  flung  awav   his  cigar,  and,  turning  t"  th< 
governess,  <  ried  alirnpt  if,  when  I  get  to  England,  I 

hear  that  any  thing  has  to,  I  shall  tall  down  dead." 


IS  LADY  AUDREY'S  SECRET. 

"My  dear-Mr.  Talboys,  why  do  you  think  of  these  things?  God  is 
very  good  to  u»;  He«,will  not  afflict  us  beyond  our  power  ot' endurance. 
1  see  all  things,  perhaps  in  a  melancholy  light;  for  the  long  monotony 
•f  my  life  has  given  me  too  much  time  to  think  over  my  troubles." 

"And  my  life  has  been  all  action,  privation,  toil,  alternate  hope  and 
despair;  I  have  had  do  time  to  think  upon  the  chances  of  any  thing  hap- 
pening to  my  darling.  What  a  blind,  reckless  fool  I  have  been  !  Three 
years  and  a-half  and  not  one  line— one  word  from  her,  or  from  any  mor- 
tal creature  who  knows  her.  Heaven  above  !  what  may  not  have  hap- 
pened I"  > 

In  the  agitation  of  his  mind  he  began  to  walk  rapidly  up  and  down  the 
lonely  deck,  the  governess  following,  and  trying  to  soothe  him. 

"I  swear  to  you,  Miss  Morley,"  he  said,  "that  till  you  spoke  to  me  to- 
night I  never  felt  one  shadow  of  fear,  and  now  I  have  that  sick,  sinking 
dread  at  my  heart  which  you  talked  of  an  hour  ago.  Let  me  alone, 
please,  to  get  over  it  my  own  way. 

She  drew  silently  away  from  him,  and  seated  herself  by  the  side  of  the 
vessel,  looking  over  into  the  water. 

George  Talboys  walked  backward  and  forward  for  some  time,  with 
his  head  bent  upon  his  breast,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left, 
but  in  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  returned  to  the  spot  where  the  gov- 
erness was  seated. 

"I  have  been  praying,"  he  said — "praying  for  my  darling." 

He  spoke  in  a  voice  little  above  a  whisper,  and  she  saw  his  face  ineffa- 
bly calm  in  the  moonlight. 


CHAPTER  III. 


HIDDEN    RELICS. 


The  same  August  nun  which  had  gone  down  behind  the  waste  of  waters 
glimmered  redly  upon  the  broad  face  of  the  old  clock  over  that  ivy-cov- 
ered arohway  which  leads  into  the  gardens  of  Audley  Court. 

A  fierce  and  crimson  sunset.  The  mullioned  windows  and  the  twink- 
ling lattices  are  all  ablaze  with  the  red  glory  ;  the  fading  light  flickers 
upon  the  leaves  of  the  limes  in  the  long  avenue,  and  changes  the  still  fish- 
pond into  a.sheet  of  burnished  copper;  even  into  those  dim  recesses  of 
brier  and  brushwood,  amidst  which  the  old  well  is  bidden,  the  crimson 
brightness  penetrates  in  fitful  flashes  till  the  dank  weeds  and  the  rusty 
iron  wheel  and  broken  woodwork  seem  as  if  they  were  flecked  with 
blood. 

The  lowing  of  a  cow  in  the  quiet  meadows,  the  splash  of  a  trout  in  the 


ET.  19 

fishpond,  the  last  notes  of  a  tired  bird,  the  creaking  of  wagon-whcel&  up- 
on the  distant  road,  every  now  and  then  breaking  tin  evening  silence, 
only  made  the  stillness  of  the  place  seem  more  intense.  It  was  almost 
oppressive,  this  twilight  stillness.  The  very  repose  of  the  place  grew 
painful  from  its  intensity,  and  you  felt  as  if  a  corpse  must  be  lying  So 
where  within  that  gray  and  ivy-covered  pile  of  building — so  deathlike- 
was  the  tranquility  of  all  round. 

As  the  clock  over  the  archway  struck  eight,  a  door  at  the  back  of  the 
house  was  softly  opened,  and  a  girl  came  out  into  the  gardens. 

But  even  the  presence  of  a  human  being  scarcely  broke  the  silence  for 

irl  crept  slowly  over  the  thick  grass,  and  gliding  into   the  avenue 

by  the  side  of  the  fishpond,  disappeared  under  the  rich  shelter  of  the  limes. 

>^he  was  not,  perhaps,  positively  a  pretty  girl  ;  but  her  appearance  was 
of  that  order  which  is  commonly  called  interesting.  Interesting,  it  may 
ecattse  in  the  pale  face  and  tho  light  gray  eyes,  the  small  features 
and  compressed  lips,  there  was  something  which  hinted  at  a  power  of  re- 
pression and  self-control  not  common  in  a  woman  of  nineteen  or  twenty. 
She  might  have  been  pretty.  I  think,  but  for  the  one  fault  in  her  small 
oval  face.  This  fault  was  an  absence  of  color.  Not  one  tinge  of  crim- 
son flushed  the  waxen  whiteness  of  her  cheeks;  not  one  shadow  of  brown 
redeemed  the  pale  insipidity  of  her  eyebrows  and  eychishcs;  not  one 
glimmer  of  gold  or  auburn  relieved  the  dull  flaxen  of  her  hair.  Even 
her  dress  was  spoiled  by  this  same  deficiency.  The  pale  Javendermus- 
lin  faded  into  a  sickly  gray,  and  the  ribbon  knotted  round  her  throat 
melted  into  the  same  neutral  hue. 

Her  figure  was  slim  and  fragile,  and  in  spite  of  her  humble  dress,  she 
had  something  of  the  grace  and  carriage  of  a  gentlewoman;  but  she  tfas 
only  a  simple  country  girl,  called  Phoebe  Marks,  who  had  been  nurse- 
maid in  Mr.  Dawso.n's  family,  and  whom  Lady  Audley  had  chosen  for 
her  maid  after  her  marriage  with  Sir  Michael. 

Of  course  this  was  a  wonderful  piece  of  good  fortune  for  Phcebe,  who 
found  her  wages  treble.]  and  her  work  lightened  in  the  well-ordered 
household  at  the  Court;  and  who  was  therefore  quite  as  much  the.  object 
of  envy  amongst,  her  particular  friends  as  my  lady  herself  in  higher 
circles. 

A  man,  who  was  sitting  on  the  broken  woodwork  of  the  well,  started 
as  the  lady's-maid  came  out  of  the  dim  shade  of  the  limes  and  stood  be- 
fore him  among  the.  weeds  and  brushwood. 

I  have  said  before  that  this  was  a  neglected  spot :  it  lay  in  the  midst 
of  a  low  shrubbery,  hidden  away  from  tho  rest  of  the  gardens,  and  only 
visible  from  the  garret  windows  at  the  back  of  the  w> 

"Why.  Pho;be,"  said  the  man,  shutting  a  clasp-knife  with  which  he 
had  been  stripping  the  bark  from  a  black-thorn  stake,  "you  came  upon 
mo  so  still  and  sudden,  that  I  thought  you  was  an  evil  spirit.  I 
across  through  the  fields,  .and  come  in  here  at.  the  gate  agen  the  moat 
and  I  was  taking  a  rest,  before  I  came  up  to  the  house  to  ask  if  \  ou  was 
come  back/1 

"lean  -  -11  from  my  bed-room  window,  bulc  "  Ph«b.<  *n 


20  I^DY  AUDLEY  S  SECRET. 

swered,  pointing  to  an  open  lattice  in  one  of  the  gables.  "  I  saw  you 
sitting  here,  and  came  down  to  have  a  chat  ;  it's  better  talking  out  here 
than  in  the  house,  where  there's  always  somebody  listening." 

The  man  was  a  big  broad  shouldered,  stupid-lookisg  alodhopper  of 
about  twenty-three  years  of  age.  His  dark  red  hair  grew  low  upon  his 
forehead,  and  his  bushy  brows  met  over  a  pair  of  greenish  gray  eyes; 
his  nose  was  large  and  well-shaped,  but  the  mouth  was  coarse  in  form 
and  animal  in  expression.  Rosy-cheeked,  red-haired,  and  bull-necked, 
he  was  not  unlike  one  of  the  stout  oxen  grazing  in  the  meadows  round 
about  the  Court. 

The  girl  seated  herself  lightly  upon  the  woodwork  at  his  side,  and 
put  one  of  her  hands,  which  bad  grown  white  in  her  new  and  easy  ser- 
vice, about  his  thick  neck. 

"  Are  you  glad  to  see  rne,  Luke  ?"  she  asked. 

"Of  course  I'm  glad,  lass,"  he  answered,  boorishly,  opening  his  knife 
again,  and  scraping  away  at  the  hedge-stake. 

They  were  first  cousins,  and  had  been  playfellows  in  childhood,  and 
sweethearts  in  early  youth. 

"  You  don't  seem  much  as  if  you  were  glad,"  said  the  girl ;  "  you 
might  look  at  me,  Luke,  and  tell  me  if  you  think  my  journey  has  im- 
proved me." 

"  It  ain't  put  any  color  into  your  cheeks,  my  girl,"  he  said,  glancing 
up  at  her  from  under  his  lowering  eyebrows ;  "  you're  every  bit  as  white 
as  yuu  was  when  you  went  away." 

"But  they  say  travelling  makes  people  genteel,  Luke.  I've  been  on 
the  Continent  with  my  lady,  through  all  manner  of  curious  places ;  and 
you  know,  when  I  was  a  child,  Squire  Hortdn's  daughters  taught  me  to 
speak  a  little  French,  and  I  found  it  so  nice  to  be  able  to  talk  to  the 
people  abroad." 

"Genteel!"  cried  Luke  Marks,  with  a  horse  laugh;  "who  wants  you 
to  be  genteel,  I  wonder?  Not  me,  for  one:  when  you're  my  wife  you 
won't  have  overmuch  time  for  gentility,  my  girl.  French,  too !  Dang 
me,  Phoebe,  I  suppose  when  we've  saved  money  enough  between  us  to 
buy  a  bit  of  farm,  you'll  be  parleyvooing  to  the  cows  f 

She  bit  her  lip  as  her  lover  spoke,  and  looked  away.  He  went  on 
cutting  and  chopping  at  a  rude  handle  he  was  fashioning  to  the  stake, 
whistling  softly  to  himself  all  the  while,  and  not  once  looking  at  his 
oousin. 

For  some  time  they  were  silent,  but  by-and-by  she  said,  with  her  face 
still  turned  away  from  her  companion — 

':  What  a  fine  thing  it  is  for  Miss  Graham  that  was,. to  travel  with  her 
maid  and  her  courier,  and  her  chariot  and  four,  and  a  husband  that  thinks 
there  isn't  one  spot  upon  all  the  earth  that's  good  enough  for  her  to  set 
her  foot  upon !" 

"  Ay,  it  is  a  fine  thing,  Phoebe,  to  have  lots  of  money,"  answered 
Luke,  "and  I  hope  you'll  bo  warned  by  that,  my  lass,  to  save  up  your 
wages  agen  we  get  married." 

"  Why,  what  was  she  in  Mr.  Dawson's  house  only  three  months  ago1?" 


LADY  AUDLBY'S  SEORET.  21 

continued  the  girl,  as  if  she  had  not  heard  her  cousin's  speech.  t:  What 
was  she  hut  a  servant  Ji'ke  mo?  Taking  wages  and  working  for  them  as 
hard,  or  harder,  than  I  did.  You  should  have  seen  her  shabby  clothes, 
Luke— worn  and  patched,  and  darned  and  turned  and  twisted,  yet  al- 
ways looking  nice  upon  her,  somehow.  She  gives  me  more  as  lady's- 
raaid  here  than  ever  she  got  from  Mr.  Dawson,  then.  Why,  I've  seen 
her  come  out  of  the  parlor  with  a  few  sovereigns  and  a  little  silver  in  her 
hand,  that  master  had  just  given  her  for  her  quarters  salary  ;  and  now 
look  at  her?" 

'■Never  you  mind  her,"  said  Luke;  "take  care  of  yourself,  Phoebe: 
that's  all  you've  got  to  do.     AVhat  should  you  say  to  a  public  house  for 
and  me,  by-and-by,  my  girl  1     There's  a  deal  of  money  to  be  made 
out  of  a  public  house." 

The  girl  still  sat  with  her  face  averted  from  her  lover,  her  hands  hang- 
ing listlessly  in  her  lap,  and  her  pale  gray  eyes  fixed  upon  the  last  low- 
streak  of  crimson  dying  out  behind  the  trunks  of  the  trees. 

"You  should  see  the  inside  of  the  house,  Luke,"  she  said  ;  "  it's  a 
tumble-down  looking  place  enough  outside;  but  you  should  see  mv  la- 
dy's rooms — all  pictures  and  gilding,  and  great  looking-glasses  "that 
stretch  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor.  Painted  ceilings,  too,  that  cost 
hundreds  of  pounds,  the  house-keeper  told  me,  and  all  done  for  her." 

"She's  a  lucky  one,"  muttered  Luke,  with  lazy  indifference. 

"You  should  have  seen  her  while  we  were  abroad,  with  a  crowd  of 
gentlemen  always  hanging  about  her;  Sir  Michael  not  jealous  of  them, 
only  proud  to  see  her  so  much  admired.  You  should  have  heard  her 
laugh  and  talk  with  them;  throwing  all  their  compliments  and  fine 
speeches  back  at  them,  as  it  were,  as  if  they  had  been  pelting  her  with 
roses.  She  set  every  body  mad  about  her,  wherever  she  went.  Her 
singing,  her  playing,  her  painting,  her  dancing,  her  beautiful  smile,  and 
sunshiny  ringlets!  She  was  always  the  talk  of  a  plaee,  as  long  as  we 
stayed  in  it." 

"Is  she  at  home  to-night?"  \ 

"No,  she  has  goue  out  with  Sir  Michael  to  a  dinner  party  at  the 
Beeches.  They've  seven  or  eight  miles  to  drive,  and  they  won't  be  back 
till  after  eleven." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  what.  Phoebe,  if  the  inside  of  the  house  is  so  mighty 
fine,  I  should  like  to  have  a  look  at  it." 

"You  shall,  then.  Mrs.  Barton,  the  housekeeper,  knows  you  by  sight, 
and  she  can't  object  to  my  si  i  !  the  best  rooms!" 

It  was  almost  dark  when  the  cousins  lefi,   the   shrubbery   and  walked 
slowly  to  the  house.     The  door  by  which  they  entered  led  iuto  the  ser- 
vants' hall,  on  one  side  of  which  was  the  housekeeper's  room.     Pho-be 
Marks  stopped  for  a  moment  to. ask  the  housekeeper  if  she  might  take 
usiii  through  some  of  th<  and  having  received  permission 

to  do  so,  lighted  a  candle  at  the  lamp  in  the  hall,  and  beckoned  to  Luke 
Mow  her  into  the  other  part  of  the  hoHse. 

The  long,  black  oak  corridors  were  dim  in  the  ghostly  twilight — the 
light  carried  by  Ph«  ig  only  a  k  of  flame       tbe  broad 


22  LADY  A I  St; 

passages  through  whuh  the  girl  led  her  cousin.  Luke  looked  suspic- 
r  his  shoulder  now  and  then,  half  frightened  by  the  creaking 
of  bis  own  hol>-nailed  boots.  . , 

"It's  a  mortal  dull  place,  Phoebe,''  he  said,  as  they  emerged,  from  a 
passage  into  the  principal  hall,  which  wae  not  yd  lighted;  "I've  heard 
tell  of  a  murder  that  was  done  here  in  old  limes." 

"There  are  murders  enough  in  these  times,  as  to  that,  Luke,"  answer- 
ed the  girl,  ascending  the  staircase,  followed  by  the  young  man. 

She  led  the  way  through  a  great  drawing-room,  rich  in  satin  and  or- 
mulu,  buhl  and  inlaid  cabinets,  bronzes,  carneos,  statuettes,  and  trinkets, 
that  glistened  in  the  dusky  light ;  then  through  a  morning  room,  hung 
with  proof  engravings  of  valuable  pictures  ;  through  this  into  an  ante- 
chamber, where  she  stopped,  holding  the  light  above  her  head. 

The  young  man  stared  about  him,  open  mouthed  ami  open  eyed. 

"  It's  a  rare  fine  place,"  he  said,  ."and   must   have  cost  a 'power  of 

money." 

"Look  at  the  pictures  on  the  walls,"  said  Phce"be,  glancing  at  the 
panels  of  the  octagonal  chamber,  which  were  hung  with  Claudes  and 
Poussins,  Wouvermans-  and  Cuyps.  "  I've  heard  that  those  alone  are 
worth  a  fortune.  This  is  the  entrance  to  my  lady's  apartments,  Miss 
Graham  that  was."  She  lifted  a  heavy  green  cloth  curtain  which  huug 
across  a  doorway,  and  led  the  astonished  countryman  into  a  fairy-like 
boudoir,  and  thence  to  a  dressing-room,  in  which  the  open  doors  of  a 
wardrobe  and  a  heap  of  dresses  flung  about. a  sofa  showed  that  it  still 
remained  exactly  as.  its  occupant  had  left  it. 

"  I've  all  these  things  to  put  away  before  my  lady  cOmes  home,  Luke  ; 
you  might  sit  down  here. while  I  do  it,  I  shan't  be  long." 

Her  cousin  looked  round  in  gawky  embarrassmeut,  bewildered  by  thfe 
splendor  of  the  room  ;  and  after  some  deliberation,  selected  the  most 
substantial  of  the  chairs,  on  the  extreme  edge  of  which  he  seated  himself. 

"  1  wish  I  could  show  you  the  jewels,  Luke,"  said  the  girl ;  "  but  I 
can't,  for  she  always  keeps  the  keys  herself;  that's  the  case  on  the 
dressing-table  there." 

"  What,  that  P.  cried  Luke,  staring  at  the  massive  walnut- wood  and 
brass  inlaid  casket.  "  Why,  that's  big  enough  to  hold  every  bit  of 
clothes  I've  got !" 

"And  it's  as  full  as  it  can  be  of  diamonds,  rubies,  pearls  and  emeralds," 
answered  Phoebe,  busy  as  she  spoke  in  folding  the  rustling  .silk  dresses, 
and  laying  them  one  by  one  upon  the  shelves  of  the  wardrobe.  As  she 
was  shaking  out  the  flounces  of  the  last,  a  jingling  sound  caught  her  ear, 
and  she  put  her  hand  into  the  pocket. 

"I  declare!"  she  exclaimed,  "my  lady  has  left  her  keys  in  her  pocket 
for  once  in  a  way:  I  can  showr  you  the  jewelry  if  you  like,  Luke." 

"  Well,  I  may  as  well  have  a  look  at  it,  my  girl,"  he  said,  rising  from 
his  chair,  and  holding  the  light  while  his  cousin  unlocked  the  casket. 
He  uttered  a  cry  of  wonder  when  he  saw  the  ornaments  glittering  on 
white  satin  cushions.  He  wanted  to  handle  the  delicate  jewels;  to  pull 
them   about,  and  find   out  their  mercantile  value.     Perhaps  a  pang  of 


LADY  AUDLK  RET.  23 

longing  and  envy  shot  through  his  heart  as  he  thought  how  he  would 
have  liked  to  have  taken  one  of  them. 

"  Why,  one  of  those  diamond  things  would  set  us  up  in  life,  Phcebe," 
he  said,  turning  a  bracelet  over  and  over  in  his  big  red  hands. 

"Put  it  down,  Luke!  Put  it  down  directly  !''  cried  the  girl,  with  a 
look  of  terror  ;  "  how  can  you  speak  about  such  things'?" 

He  laid  the  bracelet  in  its  place  with  a  reluctant  sigh,  and  then  con- 
tinued his  examination  of  the  casket. 

"What's  this?"  he  asked  presently,  pointing  to  a  brass  knob  in  the 
framework  of  the  box. 

He  pushed  it  as  he  spoke,  and  a  secret  drawer,  lined  with  purple  velvet, 
flew  out  of  the  casket. 

"Look  ye  here  !"  cried  Luke  pleased  at  his  discovery. 

Phcebe  Marks  threw  down  the  dress  she  had  been  folding,  and  went 
over  to  the  toilette  table. 

"  Why,  I  never  saw  this  before,"  she  said  ;  "  I  wonder  what  there  is 
in  it?" 

There  was  not  much  in  it ;  neither  gold  nor  gems ;  only  a  baby's 
little  worsted  shoe  rolled  up  in  a  piece  of  paper,  and  a  tiny  lock  of  pale 
and  silky  yellow  hair,  evidently  taken  from  a  baby's  head.  Phoebe's 
gray  eyes  dilated  as  she  examined  the  little  paeket. 

"  So  this  is  what  my  lady  hides  in  the  secret  drawer,"  she  muttered. 

"  It's  queer  rubbish  to  keep  in  such  a  place,"  said  Luke,  carelessly. 

The  girl's  thin  lips  curved  into  a  curious  smile. 

"You  will  bear  me  witness  where  I  found  this,"  she  said,  putting  the 
little  parcel  into  her  pocket. 

"  Why,  Phoebe,  you're  never  going  to  be  such  a  fool  as  to  take  that," 
cried  the  young  man. 

"  I'd  rather  have  this  than  the  diamond  bracelet  you  would  have  liked 
to  take,"  she  answered ;  "  you  shall  have  the  public  house,  Luke." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IN    THE    FIRST    PAGE    OF    "THE   TIMES." 

Robert  Audlev  was  supposed  to  be  a  barrister.  As  a  barrister  was 
his  name  inscribed  in  the  law-list;  as  a  barrister  ho  had  chambers  in 
Figtree  Court,  Temple;  as  a  barrister  he  had  eaten  the  allotted  number 
of  dinners,  which  form  the  sublime  ordeal  through  which  the  forensio 
aspirant  wades  on  to  fame  and  fortune.  If  these  things  can  make  a  man 
a  barrister,  Robert  Audley  decidedly  was  one.  But  he  had  never  either 
had  a  brief,  or  tried  to  get  a  brief,  or  even  wished  to  have  a  brief  in  all 


24  l.ADV   AUDLEYV 

tive  years,  during   which  his  name  had  been  painted  upon  one  of 
doora  in  Figtree  Court.     lie  wa9  a  handsome,  lazy,  can  for-noihing 
fellow,  of  about  seven-and-twsnty ;  the  only  son  of  &  you  >  i  her 

of  Sir  Michael  Audley.  Bis  father  had  lefi  him  4001.  a  year,  v. 
his  friends  had  advised  him  to  increase  by  being  called  to  the  bar ; 
as  he  found  it.  after  due  consi  I  ble  to  oppose  the  wishes 

of  these  friends,  than  tu  sat  so  many  dinners,  and  to  take  a  set  of  cham- 
bers in  the  Temple;  he  adopted  the  latter  course,  and  unhlushingty 
called  himself  a  barrister. 

Sometimes,  when  the  weather  was  very  hot,  and  he  had  exhausted 
himself  with  the  exertion  of  smoking  his  Gorman  pipe,  and  roading 
French  nevels,  he  would  stroll  into  the  Temple  Gardens,  and  lying  in 
some  shady  spot,  pale  and  cool,  with  his  shirt  collar  turned  down  and  a 
blue  silk  handkerchief  tiod  loosely  about  his  neck,  would  tell  grave 
benchers  that  he  had  knocked  himself  up  with  over  work". 

The  sly  old  benchers  laughed  at  the  pleasant  fiction ;  bu,t  they  all 
agreed  that  Robert  Audley  was  a  good  fellow ;  a  generous-hearted 
fellow;  rather  a  curious  fellow,  too,  with  a  fund  of  sly  wit  and  quiet 
humor,  under  his  listless,  dawdling,  indifferent,  irresolute  manner.  A  man 
who  would  never  get  on  in  the  world  ;  but  who  would  not  hurt  a  worm. 
Indeed,  his  chambers  were  oonverted  into  a  perfect  dog-kennel,  by  his 
habit  of  bringing  home  stray  and  benighted  curs,  who  were  attracted  by 
his  loeks  in  the  street,  and  followed  him  with  abject  fondness. 

Robert  always  spent  the  hunting  season  at  Audley  Court;  not. that  he 
was  distinguished  as  a  Nimrod,  for  he  would  quietly  trot  to  covert  upon 
a  mild-tempered,"  stout-limbed  bay  hack,  and  keep  at  a  very  respectful 
distance  from  the  hard  riders ;  his  horse  knowing  quite  as  well  as  he 
'did,  that  nothing  was  further  from  his  thoughts  than  any  desire  to  be  in 
at  the  death. 

The  young  man  was  a  great  favorite  with  his  uncle,  and  by  no  means 
despised  by  his  pretty,  gipsy-faoed,  light-hearted,  hoydenish  cousiu,  Miss 
Alicia  Audley.  It  might  have  seemed  to  other  men,  that  the  partiality 
of  a  yeung  lady,  who  was  sole  heiress  to  a  very  fine  estate,  "was  rather 
well  worth  cultivating,  but  it  did  not  so  Occur  to  Rebert  Audley.  Alicia 
was  a  very  nioe  girl,  he  said,  a  jolly  girl,  with  bo  nonsense  about  her — 
a  girl  of  a  thousand ;  but  this  was  the  highest  point  to  which  enthusiasm 
could  carry  him.  The  idea  of  turning  his  cousin's  girlish  liking  for  him 
to  some  good  account  never  entered  his  idle  brain.  I  doubt  if  he  even  had 
any  correct  notien  of  the  amount  of  his  uncle's  fortune,  and  I  am  certain 
that  he  never  for  one  moment  calculated  upon  the  chances  of  any  part 
of  that  fortune  ultimately  coming  to  himself.  So  that  when,  one  fine 
sprisg  morning,  about  three  months  before  the  time  of  whieh  I  am 
writiag,  the  postman  brought  him  the  wedding  cards  of  Sir  Michael  and 
Lady  Audley,  together  with  a  very  indignant  letter  from  his  cousin, 
setting  forth  how  her  father  had  just  married  a  wax-dollish  young  person, 
no  older  than  Alicia  herself,  with  flaxen  ringlets,  and  a  perpetual  giggle ; 
for  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  Miss  Audley'S  animus  caused  her  thus  to 
describe  that  pretty  musical  laugh  which  had  been  so  much  admired  in 


LADY  AID)..  RET.  25 

the   hue   Miss   Lucy    Graham — when   I   say,   these  documents  reached 
Kobert  Audley— -they  elicited  neither  vexation  nor  astonishment  in  the 

uro  of  that  gentleman,     lie  read  Alicia's  angry  cri 
and  i  'tier  without  so  much  as  removiag  the  amber  mouth-piece 

of  his  German  pipe  from  his  mustachioed  lips.     When  he  had  fit, 

erusal  of  iich  he  road  with  his  dark  eyebrov    elevated 

to  the  centre  of  his  forehead  (his  only  manner  of  expressing  surpris 
the  way)  he  deliberately  threw  that  and  the  wedding  cards  into  the  w 

vn  his  pipe,  prepared  himself  for  the  exertion 
of  thinking  out  the  subject. 

'•  i  always  said  the  old  buffer  would    marry,"  he,  muttered,  after  about 

half  an  bout's  reverie.     "Alicia  and  my  lady,  the  step-mother,  will  <to 

at  it  hammer  and  tongs.     I  hope  they  wont  quarrel  in  the  hunting  season, 

y  unpleasant   things  to  each  other  at  the  dinner-table ;  rows  always 

upset  a  man's  digestion." 

a  I  out  twelve  o'clock  on  the  morning  following  that  night  upou 
which  the  events  recorded  in  my  last  chapter  had  taken  place,  the 
baronet's  nephew  strolled  out  of  the  Temple,  Blackfriarsward,  on  his 
way  to  the  City.  He  had  in  ar.  evil  hour  obliged  some  necessitous  friend 
Uttiog  the  ancient  name  of  Ami  ley  across  a  bill  of  accommodation, 
which  bill  not  having  been  provided  for  by  the  drawer.  Robert  was  called 
upon  to  pay.  For  this  purpose  he  sauntered  up  Ludgate  Hill,  with  hie 
blue  necktie  fluttering  in  the  hot  August  air,  and  thence  to  a  refreshintdv 
cool  banking-house  in  a  shady  court  out  of  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  when: 
he  made  arrangements  for  selling  out  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds'  worth 
of  consols. 

He  had  transacted  this  business,  and  was  loitering  at  the  corner  of  the 
court,  waitiug  for  a  chance  hansom  to  convey  him  back  to  the  Temple, 
when  he  was  almost  knocked  down  by  a  man  of  about  his  own  age,  who 
dashed  headlong  into  the  narrow  opening. 

"Be  so  good   as   to   look   where  you're  goin  i,ert 

remonstrated,  mildly,    to  the  impetuous  passenger;  "you  might  give  a 
warning  before  you  throw  him  down  and  trample  upon  hi 
The  stranger  stopped  suddenly,  looking  very  hard  at  the  speaker,  and 
then  gasped  for  breath. 

"Bob!"  he  cried,  in  a  tone  expressive  of  the  most  intei  nish- 

ment ;  "I  only  touched  British  ground  after  dark  last  night,  and  t<>  I 
that  I  should  meet  you  this  mornit 

"I've   seen   you   *•     r  where   before,   my   bearded    friend,"  said   Mr. 
Audley,  calmly  scrutinizing  the  animated  face  of  the  other,  "bin   I'll  be 
I  if  I  can  remember  when  or  whci 

lainied   the   stranger,  reproachfully,  'you  don't  i     an  to 
say  tl.  rge  Talho 

"No  I  have  i  with   an  emphasis  by  D<  -ual 

to  him  ;  and  then  hooking  his  arm  into  that  of  his  friend,  he  led  bin 
the  shady  ring  with  his  old  indiiference,  "and  now 

about  it." 
George  Talboye  did  tell   him  all  about  it.     He  told  tl 


2G  W-D5  A  SECRET. 

which  he  had  related  ten  days  before  to  the  pale  governess  on  board  the 
s ;  and  then,  hot  and  breathless,  he  said  that  he  had  twenty  thousand 

pounds  or  so  in  his  pocket,  and  that  he  wanted  to  bank  it  at  Messrs.- , 

who  had  been  his  bankers  many  years  before. 

"If  you'll  'believe  me,  I've  only  just  left  their  counting-house,"  said 
•it.     "Til  go  back  with  you,  and  we'll  settle  that  matter  in  five, 
minutes." 

They  did  contrive  to  settle  it  in  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour ;  and  then 
Robert  Audley  was  for  starting  off  immediately  for  the  Cruwn  and 
Sceptre,  at  Greenwich,  or  the  Castle,  at  Richmond,  where  they  could 
have  a  bit  of  dinner,  and  talk  over  those  good  old  times  when  they  were 
her  at  Etou.  But  George  told  his  friend  that  before  he  went  any- 
■  ',  before  he  shaved,  or  broke  his  fast,  or  in  any  way  refreshed  him- 
self after  a  night  journey  from  Liverpool  by  express  train,  he  must  call 
at  a  certain  coffee-house  in  Bridge  Street,  Westminster,  where  he  expected 
to  find  a  letter  from  his  wife. 

"Then  I'll  go  there  with  you,"  said  Robert.  "The  idea  of  your  having 
a  wife,  George ;   what  a  preposterous  joke. 

As  they  dashed  through  Ludgate  Hill,  Fleet  Street,  and  the  Strand, 
it;  a  fast  hansom,  George.  Talboys  poured  into  his  friend's  ear  all  those, 
wild  hopes  and  dreams  which  had  usurped  such  a  dominion  over  his 
sanguine  nature.  ; 

"I  shall  take  a  villa  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames,  Bob,"  he  said,  "for 
the  little  wife  and  myself;  and  we'll  have  a  yacht,  Bob,  old  boy,  and 
you  shall  lie  on  the  deck  and  smoke,  while  my  pretty  one  plays  her 
guitar  and  sings  songs  to  us.  She's  for  all  the  world  like  one  of  those 
what's-its-names,  who  got  poor  old  Ulysses  into  trouble,"  added  the 
young  man,  whose  classic  lore  was  not  very  gpeat. 

The  waiters  at  the  Westminster  coffee-house  stared  at  the  hollow-eyed, 
unshaven  stranger,  with  his  clothes  of  colonial  cut,  and  his  boisterous, 
excited  manner;  but  he  had  been  an  old  frequenter  of  the  place  in  his 
military  days,  and  when  they  heard  who  he  was  they  flew  to  do  his 
bidding. 

He  did  not  want  much — only  a  bottle  of  soda  water,  and  to  know  if 
there  was  a  letter  at  the  bar  directed  to  George  Talboys. 

The  waiter  brought  the  soda  water  before  the  young  men  had  seated 
themselves  in  a  shady  box  near  the  disused  fireplace.  No;  there  was 
no  letter  for  that  name. 

The  waiter  said  it  with  consummate  indifference,  wdiile  he  mechani- 
cally dusted  the  little  mahogany  table. 

George's  face  blanched  to  a  deadly  whiteness.  "Talboys,"  he  said  ; 
"  perhaps  you  didn't  hear  the  name  distinctly — T,  A,  L,  B,  O,  Y,  S.  Go 
and  look  again  ;  there  must  be  a  letter." 

The  waiter  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  left  the  room,  and  returned 
in  three  minutes  to  say  that  there  was  no  name  at  all  resembling  Tal- 
boys in  the  letter  rack.  There  was  Brown,  and  Sanderson,  and  Pinch- 
beck ;  only  three  letters  altogether. 

The  young  man  drank  his  soda  water  in  silence,  and  then  leaning  his 


LADY  AUDLEY S  SEGR]  27 

elbows  upon  the  fable  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  There  was  a 
thing  in  his  manner  which  told  Kobert  Audley  that  his  disappoints 
trilling  as  it  might  appear,  was  in  reality  a  very  bitter  one.  lb-  a 
himself  opposite  to  his  friend,  but  did  not  attempt  to  address  him. 

liy-and-by  George  looked  up,  and  mechanically  taking  a  greasy  7 
newspaper  of  the  day  before  from  a  heap  of  journals  on  the  table,  stared 
illy  at  the  first  page. 

I  cannot  tell  how  long  he  sat  blankly  staring  ut  one  paragraph  amoiic 
the  list  of  deaths,  before  his  daced  brain  took  in  its  full  meaning:  lutf.  af- 
ter considerable  pause  he  pushed  the  newspaper  over  lo  Robert  Audley 
and  with  a  face  that,  had  changed  from  its  dark  bronze  to  a  sickly,  chalk'v. 
grayish  white,  and  with  an  awful  calmness  in  his  manner,  he  poiuted 
with  his  finger  to  a  line  which  ran  thus: —  « 

"  On  the  34th  ins'.,  at  Ventuor,  Isle  of  Wight,  Helen  Talboys.  aged  22." 

t 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  HEADSTONE  AT  VENTNOR. 

Yes;  there  it  was,  in  black  and  white — "  Helen  Talboys,  aged  22." 

When  George  told  the  governess  on  board  the  Argus  that  if  he  heard 
any  evil  tidings  of  his  wife  he  should  drop  down  dead,  he  spoke  in  per- 
fect good  faith;  and  yet  here  were  the  worst  tidings  that  could  com 
him,  and  he  sat  rigid,  white,  and  helpless,  staring  stupidly  at  the  shocked 
face  of  his  friend. 

The  suddenness  of  the  blow  had  stunned  him.  In  this  strange  and 
bewildered  state  of  mind  he  began  to  wonder  what  had  happened,  and 
why  it  was  that  one  line  in  the  Times  newspaper  could  have  so  horrible 
an  effect  upon  him. 

Then  by  degrees  even  this  vague  consciousness  of  his  misfortune  faded 
slowly  out  of  his  mind,  succeeded  by  a  painful  consciousness  of  external 
things.  ■  4 

The  hot  August  sunshine;  the  dusty  window-panes  and  shabby  paint- 
ed blinds ;  a  file  of  fly-blown  play-bills  fastened  to  the  wall ;  the.  black 
and  empty  fireplace;  a  bald-headed  old  man  nodding  over  the  Morning 
Advertiser;  the  slipshod  waiter  folding  a  tumbled  tabh  ■-« ■loth  :  and  Ro- 
bert Audley 's  handsome  face  looking  at  him  full  of  compps  arm 
— he  knew  that  all  these  things  took  gigantic  proportion5:,  and  then. 
by  one,  melted  into  dan;  blots,  and  swam  before  hi  He  knew 
that  there                                      -  of  half-a-dozen  furious  - 

and   he  knew   nothing  more  ;  thai 

somebody  or  something  fell  hearily  to  the  ground. 


28  LAI  A'   ALlU  :  UET. 

lie  opened  his  eyes  upon  the  dusky  evening  in  a  cool  and  shaded  room, 
the  silence  only  broken  by  the  rumbling  of  wheels  at  a  distance. 

He  lookea  about  him  wonderingly,  but  half  indifferently.  His  old 
friend,  Robert  Audley,  was  seated  by  his  side  smoking.  George  was 
lying  on  a  low  iron  bedstead  opposite  to  an  open  window,  in  which  there 
wa  or  flowers  and  two 'or  three  birds  in  eajes. 

"  You  don't  mind  the.  pipe,  do  you.  George?"  his  friend  asked,  quietly. 

"  No." 

He  lay  for  some  time  looking  at  the  flowers  and  the  birds  :  one  canary 
was  singing  a  shrill  hymn  to  the  setting  sun. 

"DcThe  birds  annoy  you,  George?    Shall  I  take  them  out  of  the  room?" 

"No  ;  I  like  to  hear  them  sing." 

Robert  Dudley  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  laid  the  precious 
meerschaum  tenderly  upon  the  ma'ntel-piece,  and  going  into  the  next 
room,  returned  presently  with  a  cup  of  strong  tea. 

"Take  this,  George,"  he  said,  as  he  placed  the  cup  on  a  little  table 
close  to  George's  pillow  ;  "it  will  do  your  head  good." 

The  young  man  did  not  answer,  but  Jooked  slowly  round  the  room, 
and  then  at  his  friend's  grave  face. . 

"Bob."  he  said,  "where  are  we?" 

"In  my  chambers,  dear  boy,  in  the  Temple.  You  have  no  lodgings 
of  your  own,  so  you  may  as  well  stay  with  mo  while  you're  in  town." 

George  passed  his  hand  once  or  twice  across  his  forehead,  and  then  in 
a  hesitating  manner,  said  quietly  : — 

"That  newspaper  this  morning,  Bob  ;  what  was  it?" 

"Never  mind  just  now,  old  boy  ;  drink  some  tea." 

"Yes,' yes,"  cried  George,  impatiently,  raising  himself  .upon  the  bed, 
and  staring  about  him. with  hollow  eyes,  "I  remember  all  about  it. 
Helen  !  my  Helen  !  my  wife,  my  darling,  my  only  love !     Dead,  dead !" 

"  George,"  said  Robert  Audley,  laying  his  hand  gently  upon  the  young 
man's  arm,  "you  must  remember  that  the  person  whose  name  you  saw 
in  the  paper  may  not  be  your  wife.  There  may  have  been  seme  other 
Helen  Talboys." 

"No,  no  !"  he  cried  ;  "the  age  corresponds  with  hers,  and  Talboys  is 
such  an  uncommon  name." 

"It  may  be  a  misprint  for  Talbot." 

"No,  no,  no  ;  my  wife  is  dead!" 
*     He  shook  off  Robert's  restraining  hand,  and  rising  from  the  bed, i 
walked  straight  to  the  door. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  exclaimed  his  friend. 

"To  Ventnor,  to  see  her  grave." 

"Not  to-night,  George,  not  to-night.  I  will  go  with  you  myself  by 
the  first  train  to-morrow." 

Robert  led  him  back  to  the  bed,  and  gently  forced  him  to  lie  down 
again.,  He  then  gave  him  an  opiate,  which  had  been  left  for  him  by  the 
medical  man  whom  they  had  called  in  at  the  coffee-house  in  Bridge  street, 
whe»  George  fainted. 

So  George  Talboys  fell  into  a  heavy  slumber,  and  dreamed  that  he 


■-. 


LADY  AUI'i .ilYS  SECRET.  29 

went  to  Ventnor,  to  find  his  wife  alive  and  happy,  but  wrinkled,  old,  and 
gray,  and  to  find  his  son  grown  into  a  young  ma». 

Early  the  next  morning  he  was  seated  opposite  to  Robert  Audley  in 
the  first-class  carriage  of  an  express,  •whirling  through  the  pretty  open 
country  toward  Portsmouth. 

They  landed   at  Ventnor  under  the  burning  heat  of  ihe  :n. 

As  the  two  young  men  came  from  the  ateamer,  tru  people  oh  the  pier 
staVed  at  George's  white  face  and  untrirrimed  beard. 

"  What  are  wo  to  do,  George  ?"  Robert  Audley  asked.  "We  have  no 
clue  to  finding  the  people  you  Want  to  I 

The  young  man  looked  at  him  with  a  pitiful,  bewildered  expression. 
The.  ►big  dragoon   was  as   helpless  as  a  baby  ;  and  Robert  Audley,  the 
most  vacillating  and    unenergetic  of  men,    found    himself   called   upon 
for  another.     He  rose  superior  to  himself,   and  equal   to   the  oc- 
casion. 

••  Had  we  riot  better  ask  at  one  of  the  hotels  about  a  Mrs.  Talboys, 
ge  V  he.  said. 

"Her  father's' name  was  Maldon," -George  muttered  ;  he  could  never 
have  sent  her  here  to  die  alone. 

They  said  nothing  more  ;  but  Robert  walked  straight  to  an  hotel, 
where  he  inquired  for  a  Mr.  Maldon. 

Yes,  they   told   lnm,  there  was  a  gentleman  of  that  name  stopping  at 
Ventnor,  a  Captain  Maldon;  his  daughter  was  lately  dead.     The  v, 
would  go  and  inquire  tor  the  address. 

The  hotel  was  a  busy  place  at  this  season  ;  people  hurrying  in  and 
out,  and  a  great  bustle  of  grooms  and  waiters  about  the  hall. 

George  Talboys  leaned  against  the  doorpost,  with  much  the  same  look 
in  his  face  as  that  which  had  frightened  his  friend  in  the  Westminster 
coffee-house. 

The  worst  was  confirmed  now.  His  wife,  Captain  Maldon's  daughter 
was  dead. 

The  waiter  returned  in  about  five  minutes  to  say  that  Captain  Maldon 
was  lodging  at  Lansdowne  Cottages,  No.  4. 

They  easily  found  the  house,  a  shabby  bow-windowed  cottage  looking 
towards  the  water. 

Was  Captain  Maldon  at  home?  No,  the  landlady  said  ;  ho  had  gone 
out  on  the  beach  with  his  little  grandson.  Would  the  gentlemen  walk 
in  and  sit  down  a  bit? 

George  mechanically  followed  his  friend  into  the  little  frout  parlor — 
dusty,  shabbily  furnished,  and  disorderly,   with  a  child's  broken   toys 
scattered  on  the  floor,  and  the  scent  of  stale  tobacco  hanging  about  the 
n  windww-curtairis. 

"  Look  !"  said  George,  pointing  to  a  picture  over  the  mantel-piece. 

It  was  his  own  portrait,  painted  in  the  obi  dragooning  days.  A  pretty 
good  likeness,  representing  him  in  uniform,  with  his  charger  in  the  back- 
ground. 

Perhaps  the  most  auimated  of  men  would  hav.  .  so  wise 

a  comforter  as  Robert  Audley.     He  did  not  utter  a  word  to  the  stricken 


J[)  LADY  AID1  RET. 

widower,  but  quietly  seated  himself  with  his   back  to  George,  looking 
out  of  the  open  window. 

For  some  time  the  young  man  wandered  restlessly  about  the  room,' 
looking  at  and  sometimes  touching  the  nicknacks  lying  here  and  there. 

Ilcr  workbox,  with  an  unfinished  piece  of  work;  her  album,  full  of  ex- 
tracts from  Byron  and  Moore,  written  in  his  own  scrawling  hand  ;  some 
books  which  he  had  jjiven  her,  and  a  bunch  of  withered  flowers  in  a  vase 
they  had  bought  in  Italy. 

"  Her  portrait  used  to  hang  by  the  side  of  mine,"  he  muttered  ;  "  I 
wonder  what  they  have  done  with.it." 

By-and-bv  he  said,  after  about  half  an  hour's  silence — 

"  I  should  like  to  see  the  woman  of  the  house;  I  should  like  to  ask 
her  about " 

He  broke  down,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Robert  summoned  the  Jandhidy.  She  was  a  good-natured,  garrulous 
creature,  accustomed  to  sickness  and  death,  for  many  of  her  lodgers  came 
to  her  to  die. 

She  told  all  the  particulars  of  Mrs.  Talboys'  last  hours  ;  how  she  had 
come  to  Veniuor  only  ten  days  before  her  death,  in  the  last  stage  of  de- 
cline; and  how,  day  by  day,  she  had  gradually  but  surely  sunk  under 
the  fatal  malady.  Was  the  gentleman  any  relative  ?  she  asked  of  Robert 
Audley,  as  George  sobbed  aloud. 

"Yes.  he  is  the  lady's  husband." 

"What!"  the  woman  cried;  "him  as  deserted  her  so  cruel,  and  left 
her  with  her  pretty  boy  upon  her  poor  old  father's  hands,  which  Captain 
MaldoD  has  told  me  often,  with  the  tears  in  his  poor  eyes?" 

"  I  did  not  desert  her,"  GeOrge  cried  out;  and  then  he  told  the  history 
of  his  three  years'  struggle. 

"Did  she  speak  df  me  f  he  asked;  "did  she  speak  of  me — at — at 
the  last?" 

"No  she  went  off  as  quiet  as  a  lamb.  She  said  very  little  from  the 
first ;  but  the  last  day  she  knew  nobody,  not  even  her  little  boy,  nor  her 
;x»or  old  father,  who  took  on  awful.  Once  she  went  off  wild  like,  talk- 
ing  about  her  mother,  and  about  the  cruel  shame  it  was  to  leave  her  to 
die  in  a  strange  place,  till  it  was  quite  pitiful  to  hear  her." 

"  Her  mother  died  when  she  was  quite  a  child,"  said  George.  "  To 
think  that  she  should  remember  her  and  speak  of  her,  but  neve/  once 
of  me." 

The  woman  took  him  into  the  little  bedroom  m  which  his  wife  had 
died.  He  knelt  jdown  by  the  bed  and  kissed  the  pillow  tenderly,  the 
landlady  crying  as  he  did  so. 

While  he  was  kneeling,  praying  perhaps,  with  his  face  buried  in  this 
humble  snow-white  pillow,  the  woman  took  something  from  a  drawer. 
She  gave  it  to  him  when  he  rose  from  his  knees  ;  it  was  a  long  tress  of 
hair  wrapped  in  silver  paper. 

"I  cut  this  off  when  she  lay  in  her  coffin,"  she  said,  "poor  dear!" 

He  pressed  the  soft  lock  to  his  lips.  "  Yes,"  he  murmured  :  "  this  is 
the  dear  hair  that  I  have  kissed  so  often  when  her  head  lay  upon  my 


LADY  AUDI!  RET.  31 

shoulder.     But  it  always  had  a  rippling  wave  in  it,  then,  and  now  it  scorns 
smooth  and  straight." 

"It  changes  in  illness,",  said  the  hmdlandy.  "If  you'd  like  to  seb 
where  they  have  laid  her,  Mr.  Talboys,  my  little  boy  shall  show  you  the. 
way  to  the  churchyard." 

So  George  Talboys  and  his  faithful  friend  walked  to  the  <juiet  spot, 
where,  beneath  a  mound  of  earth,  to  which  the  patches  of  fresh  turf,  hardly 
adhered,  lay  that  wife  of  whose  welcoming  smile  George  had  dreamed 
so  often  in  the  far  antipodes. 

Robert  left  the  young  man  by  the  side  of  this  new  made  grave,  and 
returning  in  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  found  that   he  had  not 
stirred. 

He  looked  up  presently,  and  said  that  if  there  was  a  stonemason's  any- 
where near  he  should  like  to  give  an  order. 

They  very  easily  found  the  stonemason,  and  sitting  down  amidst  .tlm 
fragmentary  litter  of  the  man's  yard,  George  Talboys  wrote  in  pencil 
this  brief  inscription  for  the  headstone  of  his  dead  wife's  grave  : — 

Sacred  to  the  Memory  of 

HELEN, 

THE  BELOVED  WIFE  OF  GEORGE  TALBOYS, 

Who  departed  this  life 
■  .  August  24th,'  18—,  aged  22, 

Deeply  regretted  by  her  sorrowing  Husband. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AN V WHERE,  ANTWHBRE  OCT  OF  THE  WORLD. 

Whk.v  they  returned  to  Lansdowne  Cottage  they  found  the  old  man 
bad  not  yet  come  in,  so  they  walked  down  to  the  beach  to  look  for  him. 
After  a  brief  search  they  found-  him,  sitting  upon  a  heap  of  pebbles,  read- 
ing a  newspaper  and  eating  filberts.  The  little  boy  was  at  same  distance 
from  his  grandfather,  diguing  in    the  sand  with  a  wooden  spade.     The 

round  the  old  man'--  shabby  hat,  and  the  child's   poor   little  1 
frock,  went  to  George's  heart.     Go  where  he  would  he  met  fresh  confirm- 
ation of  this  great  grief  of  hia  life.      His  wife  was  dead. 

"Mr.  Maldon,"  he  said,  as  he  flbproached  his  father-in-law. 

The  old  man  looked  up,  and  dropping  his  newspaper,  rose  from  the 
pebbles  with  a  oeremonioas  bow.     Hi    ;    led,  tight  with 

gray;  he  had  a  pin-died  hook  nose:  watery  blue  eyes,  and  an  irresolute 


32  LADY  ALDLEY'S  SECRET. 

looking  mouth ;  he  wore  his  shabby  dress  with  an  affectation  of  foppish 
gentility;  an  eye-glass  dangled  over  his  closely-buttoncd-up  waistcoat, 
and  bevoarried  a  cane  in  his  ungloved  hand. 

"Good  heavens!"  cried  George,  '-don't  you  know  racf 
Mr.  Maldon  started  and  colored  violently,  with  something  of  a  fright- 
ened look,  as  he  recognized  his  son-in4aw. 

:-  My  dear  boy,"  he  said,  "1  did  not;  for  the  first  moment  I  did  not! 
That  beard  makes  such  a  difference.     You  find  the  beard  makes  a  gi 
difference,  do  you  not  sir?"  he  said,  appealing  to  Robert. 

■  eat  heaven  !"  exclaimed  George  Talboys,  "  is   this   the  way   you 
■me  me?     I  come  to  England  to  find  my  wife  dead  within  a  week 
of  my  touching  land,  and  you  begin  to  chatter  to  me  about  my  beard — 
you,  her  father!" 

'•True  !  true!"  muttered  the  old  man,  wiping  his  bloodshot  eyes;  "a, 
sad  shock,  a  sad  shock,  my  dear  George.  If  you'd  only  been  here  a 
earlier." 
"If  I  had,"  cried  George,  in  an  outburst  of  grief  and  passion.  ':I  scarce- 
lv  think  that  1  would  have  lei  her  die.  I  would  have  disputed,  for  her 
with  death.  I  would  !  I  would  !  O  God  !  why  did  hot  the  Argus  go 
down  with  everv  soul  on  board  her  before  I  came  to  see  this  day  ?" 

He  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  beach,  his  father-in-law  looking 
helplessly  at  him,  rubbing  his  feeble  eyes  with  a.  handkerchief. 

"I've  a  strong  notion  that  that  old  man  didn't  treat  his  daughter  too 
well,"  thought  Robert  as -he  watched  the  half-pay  lieutenant.*  "He 
seems,  for  some- reason  or  other,  to  be  half  afraid  of  George." 

While  the  agitated  young  man  walked  up  and  down  in  a  fever  of 
regret  and  despair,  the  child  ran  to  his  grandfather,  and  clung  about  the 
tails  of  his  coat.  ' 

"  Come  home,  grandpa,  come  home,1"  he  said,  "I'm  tired." 
George  Talboys  turned  at  the  sound  of  the  babyish  voice,  and  looked 
long  and  earnestly  at  the  boy. 

He  had  his  father's  brown  eyes  and  dark  hair. 

*'  My  darling !  my  darling !"  said  George,  taking  the  child  in  his  arms, 
"  I  am  your  father,  come  across  the  sea  to  find  you.     Will  you  love  me?" 
The  little  fellow  pushed  him  away.     "  I  don't  know  you,"  he  said. 
"  I  love  grandpa  and  Mrs.  Monks  at  Southampton." 

"  Georgey  has  a  temper  of  his  own,  sir,"  said  the  old  man.  "  He  has 
been  spoiled." 

They  walked  slowly  back  to  the  cottage,  and  once  more  George 
Talboys  told  the  history  of  that  desertion  which  had  seemed  so  cruel.v 
He  told,  too,  of  the  twenty  thousand  pounds  banked  by  him  the  day 
before.  He  had  not  the  heart  to  ask  any  questions  about  the  past,  and 
his  father-in-law  only  told  him  that  a  few  months  after  his  departure  they 
had  gone  from  the  place  where  George  left  them  to  live  at  Southampton, 
where  Helen  got  a  few  pupils  for  the  piano,  and  where  they  managed 
pretty  well  till  her  health  failed,  and  she  fell  into  the  decline  of  which 
she  died.     Like  most  sad  stories,  it  was  a  very  brief  one. 

11  Tho  boy  seems  fond  of  you,  Mr.  Maldon,"  said  George,  after  a  pause. 


L.U>Y  audlevs  secret.  33 

"  Yes,  yes."  answered  the  old  man,  smoothing  the  child's  curling  hair, 
"yes,  Georgey  is  very  fond  of  his  grandfather.'.' 

"  Then  he  had  better  stop  with  you.  The  pnterest  of  my  money  ■will 
be  about  six  hundred  a  year.  You  can  draw  a  hundred  of  that  for 
Georgey's  education,  leaving  the  rest  to  accumulate  till  he  is  of  age. 
My  friend  here  will  be  trustee,  and  if  he  will  undertake  the  charge,  I  will 
appoint  him  guardian  to  the  boy,  allowing  him  for  the  present  to  remain 
under  your  care." 

"But  why   not  take  care  of  hiru  yourself,  George V  asked  Robert 
'  Audley. 

"Because  I  shall  sail  in  the  very  next  vessel  that  leaves  Liverpool  for 
Australia.  I  .shall  be  better  in  the  diggings  or  the  backwoods  than  ever 
1  could  be  here.     I'm  broken  for  a  civilized  life  from  this  hour,  Bob." 

The  old  manrs  weak  eyes  sparkled  as  George  declared  this  determina- 
tion. 

"My  poor  boy,  I  think  you're  right,"  he  said,  "I  really  think  you're 
right.  The  change,. the  wild  life,  the — the — "  He  hesitated  and  broke 
down,  as  Robert  looked  earnestly  at  him. 

"  You're  in  a  great  hurry  to  get  rid  of  your  son-in-law,  I  think,  Mr. 
Maldon,"  he  said,  gravely. 

"  Get  rid  of  him,  dear  boy  !  Oh,  no,  no  !  But  for  his  own'  sake,  my 
dear  sir,  for  his  own  sake,  you  know." 

"  I  think  for  his  own  sake  he'd  much  better  stay  in  England  and  look 
after  his  son,"  said  Robert. 

"  But  I  tell  you  1  can't,"  cried  George  ;  "every  inch  of  this  accursed 
ground  is  hateful  to  me — I  want  to  run  out  of  it  as  I  would  out  of  a 
graveyard.  Til  go  back  to  town  to-night,  get  that  business  about  the 
money  settled  early  to-morrow  morning,  and  start  for  Liverpool  without 
a  moment's  delay.  I  shall  be  better  when  I've  puthalf  the  world  be- 
tween me  and  her  grave." 

Before  he  left  the  house  he  stole  out  to  the  landlady,  and  asked  some 
more  questions  about  his  dead  wife. 

"Were  they  poor?"  he  asked,  "were  they  pinched  for  money  while 
she  was  ill  ?" 

"  <  »h,  no  !"  the  woman  answered  ;  "  though  the  captain  dresses  shabby, 
he  has  always  plenty  of  sovereigns  in  his  purse.  The  poor  lady  wanted 
for  nothing." 

George  was  relieved  at  this,  though  it  puzzled  him  to  know  where  the 
drunken  half-pay  lieutenant  could  have  contrived  to  find  money  for  all 
the  expenses  of  his  daughter's  illness. 

But  he   was  too  thoroughly  broken  down  by  the  calamity  which  had 
befallen  him  to  be  able  to  think  much  of  any  thing,  so  he  asked  no  further 
questions,  but  walked  with  his  father-in-law  and  Robert  Audley  down  to 
the  boat  by  which  they  were  to  cross  to  Portsmouth. 
The  old  min  bade  Robert  a  very  ceremonious  adieu. 
"  You  did  not  introduco  me  to  your  friend,  by-the-bye,  my  dear  boy,' 
he  said.     George  stared  at  him,  muttered  something  indistinct,  and  ran 
down  the  ladder  ru  the  boat  before  Mr.  Maldon  could  repeat  his  request 


34  LADY  AUDLEYS  SECRET. 

The  steamer  sped  away  through  the  sunset,  and  the  outline  of  the  island 
melted  in  the  horizon  as  the)-  neared  the  opposite  shore. 

"  To  think,"  said  George,  "  that  two  nights  ago, '.at  this  time,  -I  was 
steaming  into  Liverpool,  full  of  the  hope  of  clasping  her  to  my  heart, 
and  to-night  I  am  going  a  Way  from  her  grave !"■ 

The  document  which  appointed  Robert  Audley  as  gua^  little  ' 

George  Talboys  was  drawn  up  in  :i  solicitors  office  the  r.e;tt  morning. 

.  '•  It's  a  great  r  sspons\bili.ty,"  exclaimed  Robert-,  "I,  guardian  to  any-. 
I  or  anything!     I,  who  never  in  my  life  could  take  care  of  myself!"  '■ 

••  I  tVusl  in  yodr  noble  heart,  §ob;"  said  George.     "I  know  you  will  ' 
i  are   of  my   poor   orphan  boy,  and  see  that  he  is  well  used  by  his 
grandfather.     1  shall  only  draw  enough  from   Georgey's  fortune  to  take 
me  back  to  Sydney,  and-  then  begin  my  old  work  again."  . 

But  it  seemed  as  if  George  was  destined  to  be  himself  the  guardian  of 

■ti  for  when  he  reached  Liverpool,  he  found  that  a  vessel  had  just 

sailed,  and  that  there  would  not  be.another  for  a  month-,  so  he  "returned  to 

London,  and  once  more  threw  himselfiupon  Robert  Audley's  hospitality. 

The  barrister  received  him  with  open  arms';  he  gave  him  the  room' 
with  the  birds  and  flowers,  and  had  a  bed  put  up  in  his  dressing-room 
for  himself.  Grief  is  so  selfish  that  George  did  not  know  the  sacrifices  . 
his  friend  made  for  his  comfort.  He  only  knew  that  for  him  the  sun 
was  darkened,  and  the  business  of  life  done.  He  sat  all  day  long  smok- 
ing cigars,  and  staring  at  the  flowers  and  canaries,  chafing  for  the  time 
to  pass  that  he  might  be  far  out  at  sea.  * 

But,  just  as  the  hour  was  drawing  near  for  the  sailing  of  the  vessel, 
Robert  Audley  came,  in  one  day,  full  of. a  great  scheme.     A  friend  of 
his,  another  of  those  barristers  whose  last  thought  is  of  a  brief,  was  going 
to  St.  Petersburg  to  spend  the  winter,  and  wanted  Robert  to  accompany, 
him.  •  Robert  would  only  go  on  condition  that  George  went  too. 

For  a  long  time  the  young  man  resisted;  but  when  he  found 'that 
Robert,  was,  in  a  quiet  way,  thoroughly  determined  upon  not  going 
without  him,  he  gave  in,  and  consented  to  join  the  party.  What  did  it 
matter1?  he  said.  One  place  was  the  same  to  him  as  another,  anywhere 
out  of  England:  what  did  he  care  where? 

This  was  not  a  very  cheerful  way  of  looking  at  things,  but  Robert 
Audley  was  quite  satisfied  with  having  won  his  consent. 

The  three  young  men  started  under  very  favorable  circumstances, 
carrying  letters  of  introduction  to  the  most  influential  inhabitants  of  the 
Russian  capital. 

Before  leaving  England,  Robert  wrote  to  his  cousin  Alicia,  telling  her 
of  his' intended  departure  with  his  old  friend  George  Talboysj  whom  he 
had  lately  met  for  the  first  time  after  a  lap^e  of  years,  and  who  had  just 
lost  his  wife. 

Alicia's  reply  came  by  return  of  post,  and  ran  thus: — 

"My  Dkar  Robert — How  cruel  of  you  to  run  away  to  that 'horrid 
St.  Petersburg  before  the  hunting  season!  1  have  heard  that  people 
lose  their  noses  in  that  disagreeable  climate,  and  as  yours  is  rather  a 


LADY  ;AUI>I ,EY'S  SECRET,  35 

■ 

long  one.  1  should  a   to   return  before  the  very  severe  weather 

.sets  in.      What  sort  of  person  is  this  Mr.  T.  J i"  he  is  very  agree- 

able you   may  bring  !:im  to  the  Court  as  soon  :  <orn  your 

t  yon   to  secure  her  a  set  of 
sabl>  S;  are  not  to  i  lie  price,  but  to  be  sure  that  they  are 

the  !■:  an  be  obtained.     Papa  ia  perfectly  absurd about 

his»ri  td  she  and  1  cannot  get  on  together  at  all  ;  not  that  she 

is  di-.  tq  me,  for,  ass  far  as  that  goes,  she  makes    herself  agree- 

able ;  >hc.  is  so  irretrievably  childish  and  sill}. 

"Belie  be,  my  de 

"Your  affectionate  Cousin, 

'Alicia  AuDLKr."   . 


CHAPTER  VII. 

AFTER  A  YEAR. 

The  first  year  of  George  Talboys'  widowhood  passed  away;  the  deep 
band  of  crape  about  his  hat  grew  brown  and  rusty,  and  as  the  last  burn- 
ing day  of  another  August  faded  out,  he  sat  smoking  cigars  in  the  quiet 
chambers  in  Fig-tree  Court,  much  as  hj  had  done  the  year  before,  when 
the  horror  of  his  grief  was  new  to  him,  and  every  object  in  life,  hov 
trifling  or  however  important,  seemed  saturated  with  his  one  great  sorrow. 

But  the  big  ex-dragoon  had  survived  his  affliction  by  a  twelvemonth, 
and  bard  as  it  may  be  to  have  to  tell  it,  he  did  not  look  much  the  worse 
for  it.  Heaven  knows  what  inner  change  may  have  been  worked  by 
that  bitter  disappointment!  Heaven  knows  what  wasted  Bgoni 
remorse  and  self-reprqach  may  not  have  racked  George's  honest  heart  as 
he  lay  awake  at  nights  thinking  of  the  wife  he  had  abandoned  iu  the 
pursuit  of  a  fortune  which  she  never  lived  to  shar.  . 

Once,  while  they  were  abroad,  Robert  Audley  ventured   to  congratu- 
late him  upon  his  recovered  spirits.     He  burst  into  a  bitter  la 

"Do  you   know,  Bob,''  he  said,  "that  when  some  of  our  fell 
wounded  in  India,  they  home  bringing  bullet^  inside  them.     -They 

not  talk   of  them,   and   they  were  stout  and  hearty,  and  looked  as 
well,  perhaps,  as  you  or  1 ;  but  every  change   iu   the   weather,  how 
slight,  every  variation  of  the  atmosphere,  however  trifling,  brought  back 
the  ol  .of  their  wounds  as  sharp  as  ever  they  ha  1  f«lt  it  on  the 

battle-field.     I've  had    my   wound,  Bob  ;  1  carry  the  bullet  still,   and  I 
shall  carry  it  into  my  coffin." 

The  travel  lei      .  i  from  St.  ng,  and  George 

again  took  up  his  quarters  in  Sis  old  fri  s,  only  leaving 


36  l-AJDY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET. 

them  now  and  then  to. run  down  to'Southampton  atidkakc  a  1 
little  bov.     He   always   went  loaded  with  toys  and  sweetmeats  to  give.. 
lo  the  child;  bjM-for  all  this,  Gcorgey  would  not  becorai  •  iilar.'. 

with  his  papa,  and  the.  young  .man's  heart  sickened  as  he, began  to  fancy) 
that  even  his  child  was  lost  to  him. 

■'  What  can  1  do?"  he  thought.     "If  I  take  him  away  from  his  grand- 
father I  shall  break  his  heart;   if  I   let  him  remain  he  will  grow  up  a 
stranger   to   me,   and  care  more  for  that  drunken  ohl  hypocrite  than  for    • 
•  his  own  father.     But  then  what  could  an  ignorant  heavy. dragoon  like 
o  with  such  a  child  ?     What  could  I  teach  him,  except  to  smoke 
is  and  idle  about  all  day'  with  his  hands  in  his  pock' 

So  the  anniversary  of  that  30th  of  August,  upon  which  George  had 
seen  the  advertisement  of  his  wife's  death  in  the  Times  newspaper,  came 
round  for.  the  first  time,  and  the  young  man  put  off  his  black  clothes  and 
the  shabby  crape  from  his  hat,  and  laid  his  mourning  garments  in  a 
trunk  in  which  he  kept  a  package  of  his  wife's  letters,  her  portrait,  and 
that  lock  of  hair  which  had  been  cut  from  her  bead  after  death.  Robert 
Audlcy  had  never  seen  either  the  letters,  the  portrait,  or  the  long  tress 
of  silky  hair;  nor,  indeed,  had  George  ever  mentioned  the  name  of  his  , 
dead  wife  after  that  one  day  at  Ventnor  on  which  he  learned  the  full 
particulars  of  her  decease. 

"  1  shall  write  to  my  cousin  Alicia  to-day,  George,"  the  young  barrister 
said,  upon  this  very  30th  of  August.  "  Do  you  know  that  the' day  after 
to-morrow  is  thelst  of  September?  I  shall  write  and  tell  her  that  we 
•will  both  run  down  to  the  Court  for  a  week's  .shooting." 

"No,  no,  Bob;  go  by  yourself;  they  don't  want  me,  and  I'd  rather 


•  "  Bury  yourself  in  Fig-tree  Court,  with  no  company  but  my  dogs  and 
©anaries  !     No,  George,  you  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"  But  I  don't  care  for  shooting." 

"And  do  you  suppose  /care  for  it?"  cried  Robert,  with  charming 
naivete.  "  Why  man,  I  don't  know  a  partridge  from  a  pigeon,  and  it 
might  be  the  1st  of  April  instead  of  the  1st  of  September  for  aught  I 
care.  I  never  hurt  a  bird  in  my  life,  bat  I  have  hurt  my  own  shoulder 
with  the  weight  of  my  gun.  \  only  go  down  to  Essex  for  the  change  of 
air,  the  good  dinners,  and  the,  sight  of  my  uncle's  honest,  handsome  face. 
Besides,  this  time,  I've  another  inducement,  as  I  want,  to  see  this  fair- 
haired  paragon,  my  new  aunt.    You'll  go  with  me,  George?" 

"Yes,  if  you  really  wish  it." 

The  quiet  form  which  his  grief  had  taken  after  its  first  brief  violence 
left  him  as  submissive  as  a  child  to  the  will  of  his  friend  ;  ready  to  go 
anywhere  or  do  anything;  never  enjoying  himself,  or  originating  any 
enjoyment,  but  joining  in  the  pleasures  of  others  with  a  hopeless,  un- 
complaining, unobtrusive  resignation  peculiar  to  his  simple  nature.  But 
the  return  of  post  brought  a  letter  from  Alicia  Audley,  to. say  that  the 
two  young  men  could  not  be  received  at  the  Court. 

"There  arc  seventeen  spare  bedrooms,"  wrote  the  young  lady,  in  an 
indignant  tunning  hand,  "bo*  for  all   that,  my  dear  Robert,  you  can'* 


'e'ornV;  for  my  taken  it  into  her  silly  head  that  she  is  to?)  iil  to 

entertain^  visit  the  matter  with  her 'than  thrre  is 

with  mi'),  au  I'she  ntlemen  (great  rough  mi  j    )  in 

the  L<    -  nd  Mr.  Talboys,  and  tell  him 

that  ]  you  both  in  the'  limiting  season, 

Essex  for  all  that," 
said  JTobert.  :is  he  twisted  the,  letter  into  a  pipedighi  for  his  big  meer- 
schaum. '•  I'll  what  we'li  do.  George:  there's  a  glorious  inn  at 
of  fishing  in'  the  neighborhtfod  :  we'll  go  there  and 
haye  a"  week's  sport.  Fishing  is  much  better  than  shooting; •.you've 
onlj  to  lie  on  a  bank  and  stare  ;  ••;  I  don't  find  that  you  often 
catch  anything',  but  it's  very  pleas: 

He  held  the  bwisted  left*  r   to   the   feeble  spark  of  fire  glimmering  in 
the  grate  as  he  spoke,  and  tl.  .  mind, deliberately  unfolded 

it  and  srad  per  with  his  hand. 

"Poor  little  Alicia  !"  he  said  thoughtfully  ;  ':it's  rather  hard  to  treat 
her  letters  so  cavalierly — I'll  keep  it;?  upon  which  Mr.  Robert  Audley 
put  the  note  back  into  its  envelope,  and  afterward  thrust  it  into  a  pigeon- 
hole in  his  office  desk  marked  impor/anl.  Heaven  knows  what  wonder- 
ful documents  there  were  in  this  particular  pigeon-hole,  but  I  do  not 
think  it  likely  to  have  contained  anything  of  great  judicial  Tabic.  If  any 
one  could  at  that  moment  have  told  the  young  barrister  that  so  simple 
a  thing  as  his  cousin's  brief  letter  would  one  day  came  to  be  a  link  in 
that  te ruble  chain  of  evidence  afterward  to  be  slowly  forged  in  the  one 
only  criminal  case  in  which  he  was  ever  to  be  concerned,  perhaps  Mr. 
it  Audley  would  have  lifted  his  eyebrows  a  little  higher  than  u 

So  the  !  g  men  left  London  the  next  day  with  one  portmanteau 

and  a  rod  and  tackle,  between  them,  and  reached  the  straggling,  old- 
fashioned,  fast  decaying  village  of  Audley  in  time  to  order  a  good  dinner 
at  the  Sun  Inn. 

Audley  Court  was  about  threc-cjuarters  of  a  mile  from  the  village, 
lying,  as  I  have  said  deep  down  in  a  hollow,  shut  in  by  luxuriant  timber. 
.You  could  only  reach  it  by  a  cross  road  bordered  by  trees,  and  as  trimly- 
kept  as  the  avenues  in  a  gentleman's  park.  It  was  a  lonely  place  enough, 
even  in  all  its  rustic  beauty,  for  so  bright  a  creature  as  the  late  Miss 
Lucy  Graham,  but  the  generous  baronet  had  transformed  the  interior  of 
the  gray  old  mansion,  into  a  little  palace  for  his  young  wife,  and  Lady 
Audley  seemed  as  happy  as  a  child  surrounded  by  new  nmi  costly  toys. 

In  her  better  fortunes,  as  in  her  f dependence,  wherever  she 

went  she  seemed  to  take  sunshine  ai  is  with  her.     In  spi; 

Miss  Alicia's  undisguised  contempt  for  her  step-mother's  childish 
and  frivolity,  J.  J  more  H  ihan  the  baro- 

Jiter.     That  very  chilni.v  which  few  could  r«- 

cence  and  candor  of  an  infant  beamed  in  Lady  Audley's 
fair  fare,  and  shone  out  i  .  ■  liquid  blue  eyes.     The  rosy  lips, 

the  delicate  nose,  the  profusion  of  fair  ringlets,  all  contributed  to  pre- 
serve to  her  lx  Mi  and  freshness.  She 
owned  to  twenty  years  of  age,  but  it  wa«  hard  to  believe  her  ijaere  thai* 


'seventeen.     Het  fragile figure, ..which,  she  -1  vcl- 

.in,|  sti(f,  I  'ill  she  looked  like  a  child  tricked  out  for  a 

-VIL 
her  amuse  b.     She  hated  reading,  or  study  of  any  kind, 

and  loved  soci  ■  lier  than  be  alone,  she  would  adtiiii 

;er  coniid  loll  on  one  of  the  sofas  in  her  luxw. 

new   costume  for  some  .Coming  dim. or  party  ;  or  sifi 
,  I  with  her  jew  ide  her^  upon  the  s 

[iehael's  presents  spread  out  in  her  lap,  whil  mted 

ier  treasures. 

]  at  several  public  balls  at,  Chelmsford  and  Colches- 
ter^ and  v  iately  established  as  the  belle  of  the"  county.  Pleas- 
ed'with  her  high  position  and  her  handsome  house;  with  every  caprice 
gHttifi  him  indulged  ;•  admiyed  and  caressed  wherever  she 
id  of  her  generous  husband j  rich  in  a  noble  allowance  of  pin 
money;  with  no  poor  relations  to  worry  her  with  claims  upon  her  purse 
or  patronage;  it  would  have  been  hard  to  find  in  the  county  of  Essex  a 
more  fortunate  creature  than  Lucy,  Lady  Audley.     *■■ 

The  two  young  men  loitered  over  the  dinner-table  in  the  private  sit- 
ting-room  at  the  Sun  Inn.  The  windows  were  thrown  wide  open,  and 
t]le  f,  ry  air  blew  'in  upon  them  as  they  dined.     The  weather 

was  lovely;  the  foliage  of  the  woods  touched  here  and  there  with  faint 
gleams  of  the  earliest  tints  of  autumn;  the  yellow  corn  still  standing  in 
some  of  the  field?,  in  others  just  falling  under  the  shining  sickle;  while 
in  the  narrow  lanes  you  met  great  wagons  drawn  by  broad-chested  cart- 
horses, carrying  home  the  rich  golden  store.  To  any  one  who  has  been 
during  thehotsummer  months, pent  up  in  London,  there  is  in  the  first  taste 
of  rustic  life  a  kind  of  sensuous  rapture,  scarcely  to  be  described.  George 
Talboys  felt  this,  and  in  this  he  experienced  the  nearest  approach  to  en- 
joyment that  he  had  ever  known  since  his  wife's  death. 
•  clock  struck  five  as  they  finished  dinner. 
"Put  on  your  hat,  George,'5  said  Robert  Audley;  "they  don't  dine  at 
the  Court  till  f  <!  have  time  to  stroll  down  and  see  the  old 

placi  inhabitants." 

The  landlord,  who  had  come  into  the  room  with  a  bottle  of  wine,  look- 
ed up  ag  the  young  man  spoke. 

"1  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Audi  1,  "but  if  you   want   to  see 

yoar  uncle,  you'll  lose  your  time  by  going  to   the  Court  just  now.     Sir 

. iy   lady  and  Miss  Alicia  have  all  gone  to  the  races  up. at 

won't  be  back  till  nigh  upon  eight  o'clock,  most  likely. 

They  must  pass  by  here  to  go  home." 

(Jpd.er  i!i  ■  circumstances  of  course  it  was  no  use  going  to  the  Court, 
so  the  two  young  men  strolled  through  the  village  and  looked  at  the  old 
church,  and  then  went  and  reeonnoitered  the  streams  in  which  they  were 
to  fisl  day,  and  by  such  means  beguiled  the  lime  till  after  seven 

uarterpast  that  hour  they  returned  to  the  inn.  and 
rig  themselves  in  the  open  window,  lit  their  cigars  and  looked  out 
at  the  peaceful  prospect. 


LADY  A  RET.'  39 

,    ;we  hear  every  day. of  murders  committed  in  the  country.     ] 
trcaehqrous  murd£ry;  slow,  protracted  ;iir< >nies  from  p 

kindred  hand  ;  'sikV  'lis  by  cruel   6J6we    in- 

flicted with  a  stake  cut  from  ng   oak.'  whose   vary,  si 

promised-  unty  of  which  I  wi-ije,  .1  have 

meadow  in  v.  lii<  i,  on  a  '■. 
murdered  th    gir]  who  b 
_  with  the  stain  of  tha 
No  sj  rime  lias  evei  1  hi  the  worst  • 

i 
calm  1!,  in  spite  of  all,   we  look  on  Svith  a  tender,  hall 

yean 

It,  was  dusk  when  gigs  - 

tons,  began  to  rcet,  and  under  the  wi 

of  the  Sim  Inn: 
suddenly  up  beneath  the 

It  was  Sir  Michael  Aw  en  a  slop 

before  the  little  inn.     The  ha  .,.  0l,t 

of  order,  and  the  forei  ight. 

"Why,  it's  my  uncle.  :>ert  Audley,  as  the  carriage  stopped. 

"I'll  run  down  aifd  speak  to  him." 

George  lit  another  cigar,  and,  sheltered  by  the  window  curtains,  look- 
ed  out  at  the  little  party.     Alicia  sat  with  her  back  to  the  hqrs 
could  pen  0  in  the  dusk,  that  she  was  a  handsome  brunette;  but 

Lady  Audley  \  farthest  from  the 

inn,  and  he  cou.  iiing  of  the  fair  haired  p  f  whom  hi 

heard  so  much. 

"Why,  exclaimed  Sir  Michael,  as  his  nephew  emerged  from 

the  inn,  "this  is  a  surpri 

"I  have  not  come  to  intrude  up.  '  a r  uncle  " 

said  the  young  man,  iaronet  shook  him  by  th 

hearty  fashion.     "  Essex  is  ray  native  com  iow,  ami 

time  of  year  I  generally  have  a  t  a,,,l 

I  have  con  to  the  inn  for  I  ng." 

"George — (George  wh 

'"^  dying  to 

see  t 

..  FN  run  and  ; 
him.  and  igtrodu 

No-  w  hicfa  1- ad  ■    Amlley  had,  i 

own  childish,  unthinkin  : 

ely  that  I  i  mored  from  his 

W1<1  ,  the 

inn,  it  needed   but 

. 
that  she  did  not  vri  urge 

Talboys. 


40 

'-  Never  m.rad  to-night,  Bob,1'  he  said.  "  My  yvifeis'a  little  tired  after 
our  long  day's  pleasure.  Bring- your  friend  to  dinner  to-morrow,  and 
rlien  he  and  Alicia  can  make  each  other's  acquaintance.  Come  round 
and  speak  to  Lady  Andley,  and  then  we'll  drive  home." 

My  ladr  was  .«<•■>   terribly  faiigucd  that  she  could  only  smile  swe. 
and  hold  out  a  tiny  gloved  hand  to  hec  nephew  by  marriage. 

"  You  will  come  and  dine  with  us  to-morrow,  and  bring  your  interest- 
ing friend  V  she  said,  in  a  low  and  tifed  voice.  She  had  been  the  chief 
attraction  of  thu  race-course,  and  was  wearied  but  by  the  exertion  pf 
fa3cinat!ng  half  the  county. 

"It'*  a  wonder  Bhe  didn't  treat  you  to  her  never-ending  laugh," 
whispered  Alicia,  a9  she  leaned  over  the  carriage  door  to  bid  Robert 
good-right :  "  but  I  daresay  she  reserves  that  for  your  delectation  to- 
morrow, i  suppose  you  are  facinated  as  well  as  everybody  else  ?"  added 
the  young  Jady,  rather  snappishly. 

"Sha  is  a  lovely  creature,  certainly,"  murmured  Robert,  with  placid 
admiration.        , 

"  Oh,  of  coarse  !  Now,  she  is  the  first  woman  of  whom  I  ever  heard 
you  6ay  a  civil  word,  Robert  Audley.  I'm  sorry  to  find  you  can  only 
admire  wax  dolls." 

Poor  Alicia  had  had  many  skirmishes  with  hep  cousin  upon  that  pecu- 
liar temperament  of  his,  which,  while  it  enabled  him  to  go  through  life 
with  perfect  content  and  tacit  enjoyment,  entirely  precluded  his  feeling 
one  spark  of  enthusiasm  upon  any  subject  whatever. 

"As  to  his  ever  falling  in  love,"  thought  the  young  lady  sometimes, 
"the  idea  is  tow  preposterous.  If  all  the  divinities  upon  earth  were  rang- 
ed before  him,  waiting  for  his  sultanship  to  throw  the  handkerchief,  he 
would  only  lift  his  eyebrows  to  the  middle  of  his  forehead,  and  tell  them 
to  scramble  for  it."  * 

But,  for  once  in  his  life,  Robert  was  almost  enthusiastic. 

"  She's  the  prettiest  little  creature  you  ever  saw  in  your  life,  George," 
he  cried,  when  the  carriage  had  driven  off  and  he  returned  to  his  friend. 
"Such  blue  eyes,  such  ringlets,  such  a  ravishing  smile,  such  a  fairy-like 
bonnet — all  of  a  tremble  with  heart's-ease  and  dewy  spangles,  shining 
out  of  a  cloud  of  gauze.  George  Talboys,  I  feel  like  the  hero  of  a  French 
novel :  I  am  falling  in  love  with  my  aunt." 

The  widower  only  sighed  and  puffed  his  cigar  fiercely  out  of  the  open 
window.  Perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  that  far-away  time — little  better 
than  five  years  ago,  in  fact;  but  such  an  age  gone  by  to  him — when  he 
first  met  the  woman  for  whom  he  had  worn  crape  round  his  hat  three 
days  before.  '  They  returned,  all  those  old  unforgotten  feelings ;' they 
came  back,  with  the  scene  of  their  birth-place.  Again  he  lounged  with 
his  brother  officers  upon  the  shaVjfby  pier  at  the  shabby  watering-place, 
listening  to  a  dreary  band  with  a  cornet  that  was  a  note  and  a  half  flat. 
Again  he  heard  the  old  operatic  airs,  and  again  she  came  tripping  toward 
him  leaning  on  her  old  father's  arm,  and  pretending  (with  such,  a  charm- 
ing, delicious,  serio-comic  pretence)  to  be  listening  to  the  music,  and 
-quite  unaware  of  the  admiration  oi  half-a-dozen  open-mouthed  eavoJry 


5  SJECR]  41- 

officers.     Again  the  old  fancy  came  back  that  'she  was  somethiri 

,  and  that  to  approach  l\or  was  to  walk 

Kn  a  higher  atmosphere  arid  to  brcathk  a  purer  afy,     And  since  this  she 

•  had  been  his  wife,  and   the   mother   of  liis  child.  'She  lay  in  tin:  little 

bhurchyard  at  Ventnor,  and  only  ;i  year  ago  he  had  given   the  order  for 

her  t<  .     A  ww  slow,  silent  tears  d  his  waistcoat  as 

bethought  of  those  things  in  the  quiet  and  darkening 

Lady  Xudl  exhausted  when  she  reached  home,  that  shi 

eased  lii.  i-- m' iioui  the  dinner-table,  and  retired  at  once   to   her  dre 
room  I  by  her  maid,  Phcebe  Marks* 

ittle  capricious  in    her  conduct  to  this   maid — sometii 
very  confidential,  sometimes  rather  reserved  ;  but  she  was  a  liberal  mis- 
tress,  and  the  girl  had  every  reason  to  be  satisfied  with  her  situation. 

This  evening,  in  spite-  of  her  fatigue,  she  was  in  extremely- high  spirits, 
and  gave  an  animated  account  of  the  races,  and  the  company  present  at 
them. 

"lam  tired  to  death,  though,  Phcebe,"  she  said,  by-and-by,  "I'm 
afraid  1  must  look  a  perfect  fright,  after  a  day  in  the  hot  sun." 

There  were  lighted  candles  on  each  side  of  the  glass  before  which  Ladv 
Audley  was  standing  unfastening  her  dress.  She  looked  full  at  her  maid 
as  she  spoke,  her  blue  eyea  clear  and  bright,  and  the  rosy  childish  lips 
puckered  into  an  arch  s:  t 

'•You  are  a  little  pale,  my  lady,"'  answered  the  girl,  "but  you  look  as 
pretty  as  ever." 

"That's  right,  Phcebe,"  she  said,  flinging  herself  into  a  chair,  and 
throwing  back  her  curls  at  the  maid,  who  stood,  brush  in  hand,  ready  to 
arrange  the  luxuriant  hair  for  the  night.-  "  Do  you  know,  Phcebe,  1  have 
heard,  somu  people  say  that  you  and  I  are  alike  V 

"  I  have  heard  them  say  so  too,  my  lady,"  said  the  girl,  quietly  ;  "  but 
they  must  be  very  stupid  to  say  it.  for  your  ladyship  is  a  beauty,  and 
I'm  a  poor  plain  creature."' 

"  Not  at  all.  Phoebd,"  said  the  little  lady,  superbly  ;  "you  are  like  me, 
and   your   features  nice:   it  is  only  color  that  you  want.     My 

hair  is  pale  yellow  shot  with  gold,  and  yours  is  drab  :  my  eyebrows  and 
eyelashes  are  dark  brown,  and  yours  are  almost — I  scarcely  like  to  say 
it.  but  they're  almost  White,  my  dear  Phoebe.  Your  complexion  is  sal- 
low, and  mine  is  pink  and  rosy.  Why.  with  a  bottle  of  hair-dye,  such 
as  we  see  advertised  in  the  papers,  and  a  pot  of  rouge,  you'd  be  as  good 
looking  as  I.  any  day,  Phcel 

She  prattle  1  on  in  this  way  for  along  time,  talking  of  a  hundred'friv- 
'  the  pebple  she  had   met  at   the  races,  for 
her  maid's  amusement.     Hef  Btep«deughtei  came  into  the  dfes«ing-j 

i  her  good-night,  and  found  the.  maid  and  mistress  laugh i 
over  on  e*r>f  the  day's  ad  \  Alicia,  who  %  familiar  with 

her  servant*,  withdrew  i  '  at  mv  lady's  frivolity. 

"  G©  on  brushing  my  1  Lady  Audley  -aid,  every   lime 

the  girl  was  about  to  complete  her  task;  "I  quite  enjoy  a  chat  with 
you." 


t'l  'T 

.1  her  ma  .jddenly  sailed 

•■  I  want  you  to  do  rjCte.a  fav< 
. 
<•  I  Waht  Ion  by  the  first  train  to-morrow  morning  to- 

te   a  Jit!'  i    for  me.     You  may   take  a  'day's  h 

■    have  friends  in  fcown  ;  'and  I  shall  give 
do   wha';  i  wa  keep  your  own  co 

"  Yes.  "by  lady." 

.at  that  door  is  securely  shut,  and  come'  and  sit  on  this  stool 

ved.     Lady  Audley'smoothed'-her  maid's  neutral-tinted 
plump,  white,'and' bejewelled  haud  as  she  reflected  for  a 
moments: 

\nd  now  listen,  Phoebe.     What  I  want  you  to  do  is  very  simple." 

It  was  so  .simple   that  it  was  told  in  five  minutes,  and  then  Lady 

An  Hey  retired  into  her*  bedroom,  and  curled  herself  up  cosily  under  the 

down  quilt.     She  was  a  chilly  little  creature,  and  loved  to  bury 

herself  in  soft  wrappings  of  satin  and  fur. 

"  Kiss  me,  Phoebe,"  she  said,  as  the  girl  arranged  the  curtains.     "I 

Sir  Michael's  step  in  the  anteroom  ;    you  will  meet  him  as  you  go 

out,  and  you   may  as  well  tell  him  that  you  are  going  up  by  the  first 

or  row  morning  to  get  my  dress  from  Madame  Frederick  for 

the  dinner  at  Morton  Abbey." 

was  late  the  next  morning  when  Lady  Aud.ley  went  down  tobreak- 
.!   o'clock.  .  While  she  was  sipping  her  coffee  a  servant 
brought  her  a  sealed  packet,  and  a  book  for  her  to  sign. 

11  A  telegraphic  message !"  she  cried ;  for  the  convenient  word  telegram, 
had  not  yet  been  invented.     "What  can  be  the  matter?"    . 

She  looked  up  at  her  husband  with  wide-open,   terrified  eyes,  and 
seemed  half  afraid   to  break  the  seal.     The  envelope  was  addressed  to 
Lucy  Graham,  at  Mr.  Dawson's,  and  had   been  sent  on  from  the 
villi  ■ 

u  Read  it,  my' darling,"  he  said,  "and  do  not  be  alarmed;  it  may  be 
nothing  of  any  importance." 

It  c  '  a  Mrs.  Vincent,  the  schoolmistress  with  whom  .she  had 

lived  before  entering  Mr.  Dawson's  family.     The  lady  was  dangerously 
ill,  and  implored  her  old  pupil  to  go  and  see  her-. 

o    t    il!  she  always  meant  to  leave  me  her  money,"  said  Lucy, 
•  a  mournful  smile.     "She  has  never  heard  of  the  change  in  my 
fortunes.     Dear  Sir  Michael,  1  must  go  to  her." 

"To  be  sure  you  must,  dearest.     If  she  was  kind  to  my  poor  girl  in 
adversity,  she  has  a  claim  upon  her  prosperity  that  shall  never  be 
forgotten.     Put  On  your  bonnet,   Lucy;    we  shall  be  in  time  to  catch 
,  the  express." 

"You  will  go  with  me?" 

"Of  course,  my  darling      Do  you  suppose  I  would  let  you  go  alone?" 

"1  was  sure  you  would  go  with  me,"  she  said  thoughtfully. 


I V  AUDLE  VS  SECRET.  i  [  J  ' 

"Does  your  friend  send  any  address?" 

pent  Villa,  \\  i  .ton;  and 

[ryes  there  stilL" 
Tli-  6nl\    time  for  Lady  Audley  to  hi  ler  bonnet  and 

heard  the  drive  round  I  o 

Michael- culling 

lli  ms  as  1  li  opened  o  f 

terminated  in  a  antechamber  hung  with  oil   pail 

in  her  has  ierately  at  the  door  of  this 

locked  it,  and  dropped  the  key  into  her  pocket.    .This  door,  once  k 
cut  off  all  uts. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

« 

BEFORE  THE  STORM. 

So  the  dinner  at  Audloy  Court  was  postponed,  and  Miss  Alicia  had 
to  wait  still  longer  °r  an  introduction  to  the  handsome  young  widower, 
Mr.  George  Tall 

I  am  afraid,  if  the  real  truth  is  to  be  told,  there  was,  perhaps,  some- 
thing of  affectation  in  the  anxiety  this  young  lady  expressed  to  make- 
George's  acquaintance;  but  if  poor  Alicia  for  a  moment  calculated  upon 
arousing  any  latent  spark  of  jealousy  lurking  in  her  cousin's  breast  by 
this  exhibition  of  interest,  she  was  not  so  weli  acquainted  with  Robert 
Audley's  disposition  as^she  might  have  been.  Indolent,  handsome,  and 
indifferent,  the  young  barrister  took  life  as  altogether  too  absurd  a  mis- 
De  event  in  its  foolish  course  to  be  for  a  moment  considered 
seriously  by  a  sensible  man. 

His  pretty,  gipsy-faced  cousin  might  have  been  over  head  and  ears  in 

with  him ;    and  she   might  have  told   him  so,  in  some   charming, 

ly  fashion,  a  hundred  times  in  a  day  for  all  the  three 

bund:  ive  days  in  the  year;  but  unless  she  had  waited  for 

"uary,  and  walked   straight  up  to  him, 
ill   you  i  much  doubt  if  he 

would  ever  have  discover^  ••  !:!iL's. 

en  in   love  with  her  h  mself,  I  fancy  thai  the  tender 
wi'l]  him,  ha  ■  • 

.rave  with 

•i.   and  v  i 

knowledge  whatever  of  b 

ia,   to  i  ide  about   the  I 
be  two  young  men  spent 


LAI 

• 
in  Essex;  it.  frasuwasted  trouble   to  -wear  that   pret 

md   to  b<  smgYiiar  or'  ch 

Robert  unci  his  friend.     The  blade  curb  (nothing  like  Lady  Aim 
featherly   ringlets,   but  heavy   clustering  locks,   that   clung  about 
slender  brown  throat),  the  red  and  pouting  .lips,  the  nose 
.    retrousse,   the  dark  complexion,   with   its   bright  crimson. flush,,  a] 
v   to  glance   up  like  a  signal  right  in  a  dusky  sky,  wWn 
sudden!  v  upon  your  apathetic  cousin — all  tbi 
beaut}  was,  thrown  away  upon  the  dull  eyes  of-  Robert  Ai 

II   have  taken  your   restin  the  cool    drawing-r'oprn  . 
id   of  working  your   pretty    mare   to   death  under  ti. 
September  sun. 

Now  fishing,  except  to  Uu  •  disciple  of  I;:aak  Walton,  is  not 

lively  of  occupations  ;  therefore,  it  is  scarcely,   perhaps,  to  be 

1  that  on  the  day  after  Lady  Audley's  departure,  the  t\«o  ; 

.  (one  of  whom  was  disabled,  by  that  heart  wound  which  he  bore  so 

quietly,  from  really  taking  pleasure  in  anything,  and  the  other  of  whom 

looked  upon  almost  all  pleasure 'as  a  negative  kind  of  trouble)  began  to 

grow  w,eary  of  the  shade  of  the  willows  overhanging  the  winding  streams 

about  Audlcy.- 

"Fig-tree  Court  is  not  gay  in  the  long  vacation,"  said  Robert  reflect- 
ively; "but  I  think,  upon  the  whole,  it's  better  than  this ;  at  any  rate 
it's  near  a  tobacconist's,"  he  added,  puffing  resigned)  at  an  execrable 
cigar  procured  from  the  landlord  of  the  jSun  Inn. 

George  Talboys,  who   had   only  consented  to  the  Essex  expedition  in 

'  passive  submission  to  his  friend,  was  by  no  means  inclined  to  object  to 

their  immediate  return  to  London.     "I  shall  be  glad  to  get  back,  Bob," 

he  said,  "for  I  want  to  take  a  run  down  to  Southampton  ;  I  haven't  seen 

the  little  one  for  upward  of  a  month." 

He  always  spoke  of  his  son  as  "  the  little  one  ;"  always  spoke  of  him 
mournfully  rather  than  hopefully.  It  seemed  as  if  he  could  take  no 
Comfort  from  the  thought  of  his  boy.  lie  accounted  for  this  by  saying 
that  he  hid  a  fancy  that  the  child  would  never  learn  to  love  him  ;  and 
worse  even  than  this  fancy,  a  djm  presentiment  that  he  would  not  live 
to  see  his  little  Georgcy  reach  manhood. 

"  I'm  not,  a  romantic  man,  Bob,"  he  would  say  sometimes,  "and  I 
never  read  a  line  of  poetry  in  my  life  that  was  any  more  to  me  than  so 
many  words  and  bo  much  jingle;  but  a  feeling  has  come  over  me,  since 
my  wife's  death,  that  1  am  like  a  man  standing  upon  a  long,  low  shore, 
with  hideous  cliiis  frowning  down  upon  him  from  behind,  and  the  rising 
crawling 'slowly  but  surely  about  his  feet.  It  seems  to  .grow  nearer 
and  nearer  every  day,  that  black,  pitiless  tide;  not  rushing  upon  me 
with  a  great  noise  and  a  mighty  impetus,  but  crawling,  creeping,  stealing, 
gliding  toward  me,  ready  to  close  in  above  my  head  when  I  am  least 
prepared  for  the  end."  , 

Robert  Audley  stared  at  his  friend  in  silent  amazement ;  and,  after  a 
pause  of  profound  deliberation,  said  solemnly,  "  George  Talboys,  I  could 
understand  this  if  you  had  been  eating  heavy  .suppers.     Gold  pork,  now, 


Y  AUDLEY'fc  S  45. 

lone,   migh|;  'produce,   this  sort  of  thine;.   'You  want 
air,  dear   \    v  ;  you  want  the  refreshing  breezes  of  Fig-tree 
sphere  of  Fleet  street.     Or.  ;\\v,"  he  added 
.  ■•  I  have  it  !     You've  been-  smoking  our.friend  the  lamb 
ts  for  every  "thing." 
They  met 'Alicia  Audley  oq   her   mare   about  half  an  hour  after  they 
to  l.he -determination  of  leaving  Essex  early  t  ho  next,  morning* 
qubg  la  rprised   and   disappointed  at   h< 

s  determination,   and    for  that  very  reason  pretended  j 
the  matter  with  supreme 'indifference. 

"Yon    are   very    soon    tin  d  of  Audley..  Robeit,",she  said,  c; 
"but  ds   here,  except  ydifr  relations  at  t ha- 

lt, you  have  the  most  delightful  soi 

and 

"I  get  good    tobacco,"  murmured  Robert,   interrupting  his  oousio. 
"Audley  *is   the  dearest,  old  place,  but  when  a  man  has  to  smoke  dried 
ayes,  you  know,  Micia — — ' 
"Then  y<  u  really  are,  going  to-morrow  morning?'' 
"Positively — by  the  express  that  leaves  at  10.50.'' 
"Then   Lady   Audley   will  lose  an  introduction  to  Mr.  Talboys,  and 
Mr.  Talboys  will  lose  the  chance  of  seeing  the  prettiest  woman  in  Essex." 

"Really "  stammered  George. 

"The  prettiest  woman  in  Essex  would  have  a  poor  chance  of  getting 
much  admirntiori  out  of  my  friend,  George  Talboys,"  said  Robert. 
"  His  heart  is  at  Southampton,  where  he  has  a  curly-headed  little  urchin, 
about  as  high  as  his  knee,  wh'o  calls  him  'the  big  gentleman,'  and  asks 
him  for  sugar-plums." 

"I  am  going  to  write  to  my  step-mother  by  to-night's  post,"  said 
Alicia.  "She  asked  me  particularly  in  her  letter  how  long  you  were 
going  to  stop,  and  whether  there  was  any  chance  of  her  being  back  in 
time  to  receive  you." 

Miss  Audley  took  a  letter  from  the  pocket  of  her  riding-jacket  as  she 
spoke — a  pretty,  fairy-like  note,  written  on  shining  paper  of  a  peculiar 
creamy  h 

She  says  in  her  postscript,  'Be  sure  you  answer  my  question  about 
Mr.  Audley  and  Lis  friend,  you  volatile,  forgetful  Alicia!" 

"  What  a  pretty  hand  she  writes  !"  said  Robert,  as  his  cousin  folded 
the  nol 

"Yes,  it  is  pretty,  is  it  not t     Look  at.  it,  Robert." 
She.  put  the  letter   into  his  hand,  and  he  contemplated  it  lazily  for  a 
few  minutes,  while   !  ted  the  graceful  neck  of  her  chestnuts 

anxious  to  be  olfoi 
"  Presently,  Atalanta-,  presently.     Give  me  back  my  note,  U 
"It  is  the  prettiest,  most  aoquettish  little  hand  1  ever  saw.     Do  yon 
know,  Alicia,  I  have  no   great   belief  In   those  fellows  who  ask  you  for 

offer  to  tell  you  whit  you  have  never  been 
pon'my  word  I  think  that  if  I  had  I 
seen  your  aunt,  1  should  know  what  she  was  like  by  this  slip  of  paper. 


.DY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET. 

U  all  is — the  feathei  : 

;,  «  hildi 
rokes  and  do\\  n:strokes.'    Ge< 

id   gloomy   George  Talboys  -liaci 

liking  ihebui;  i  !,  hU 

nd  Alu-ia, 
ady .  impaj  enj  l\  ;. 
uisitioii    upon  n  li.l 

it's  past  eight,  and/I -must  an 
. ■;.     Come,   Atalanta!     Good-by,  Robert-  .  Tal- 

!    journey  to  town/' 

uite'red  briskly  through  the  lane,  and  Miss  Aud 
ley  v*  before  those  two  big,  bright  tears  that  stood  in  her 

e^yes  for  ono  moment,  before  her  pride  sent  them  back  again,  rose  from 
her  angry  heart. 

"To  have  only  one  cousin  in  the  world,"  she  cried  passionately, -"my 
nearest  relation  after  papa,  and  for  him  to  care  about  as  much  for  me  as 
he  would  for  a  dog!r 

By  the  merest  of  accidents,  however,  Robert  and  his  friend  did  not  go 
by  the  10.50  express  on  the  following  morning,  for  the  young  barrister 
awoke  with  such  a  splitting  headache,  that  he  asked  George  to  seud  him 
a  cup  of  the  strongest  green  tea  that,  had  ever  been  made  at  the  Sun. 
to  be  furthermore  so  good  as  to  defer  their  journey  until  the  next  day. 
Of  course  George  assented,  and  Robert  Audley  spent  the  forenoon  lying 
in  a  darkened  room,  with  a  five-days'-old '  Chelmsford  paper  to  entertain 
himself  withal. 

"  It's  nothing  but  the  cigars,  George,"  he  said  repeatedly.  "  Get  me 
out  of  the  place  without  my  seeing  the  landlord  ;  for  if  that  man  and  I 
meet  there  will  be  bloodshed." 

for  the  peace  of  Audley.  it  happened  to  bo  market-day 

at  Ch  ;  and  the  worthy  landlord  had  ridden  off  in  his  chaise-cart 

to  pu  ippliee  for  his  house — among  other  things,  perhaps,  a  fresh 

of  those  very,  cigars  which  had  been  so  fatal  in  their  effect  upon 

ert.  ' 

The  young  men  spent  a  dull,  dawdling,  stupid,  unprofitable  day  ;  and 

rd  dusk  Mr.  Audley  proposed   that   they  should  stroll  down  to  the 

Court,  and  ask  Alicia  to  take* them  over  the  house. 

"It  will  kill  a  couple  of  hours  you  know,  George;  and  it  seems  a 
great  pity  to  drag  you  away  from  Audley  without  having  shown  you  the 
i,  which  1  give  you  my  honor  is  very  well  worth  seeing." 
The  sun  was  low  in  the'skies  as  they  took  a.  short  cut  through  the 
meadows,  and  crossed  a  style  into  the  avenue  leading  to  the  archway — 
a  lurid,  heavy-looking,  ominous  sunset,  and  a  deathly  stillness  in  the  air, 
which  frightened  the  birds  that  had  a  mind  to  sing,  and  left  the  field 
open  to  a  few  captious  frogs  croaking  in  the  ditches.  'Still  as  the  at- 
mosphere "was,  the  leaves  rustled  with  that  sinister,  shivering  motion 
which  proceeds  from  no  outer  cause,  but  is  rather  an  instinctive  shudder 


,ADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRJ  T. 

'of  the  frai]  m.  'That  stupid  < 

which.knf 
*  other,  pointed  to  seven  as/the 
but'*ipr  all  Jthal 

The,y  found  the'3imc:walk, 

■under 

withered  >und. 

■ 

"It  in  a  church 

fully  the  dead  mighl  -..  ep  un     r  this  sombi  [lurch* 

Tl-  ell;  and 

re  one  chirk  pa 

We  want  to  see  the  hous  &  dark,  Alicia,"  rt. 

"  Then  we  must  be  quick,"  she  answered.     "  ( 
She  led  the  way  through  an  open  French  window,  modern! 

before,  into  the  Horary,  and  thence  to  the  hall. 
In  the  hall  they  passed  my  lady's  pale-faced  maid,  w  d  furtively 

under  her  white  eyelashes  at  the  two  young  na 

They  weir  going  up-stairs,  when  Alicia  turned    and  spoke  to  the' 
girl. 

"  After  we  have  been  in  the  drawing-room  I  should  like  to  show  I 
gentlemen  Lndy  A  ms.     Are  they  in  good  order,  PI 

"Yes,  miss;  but  the  door  of  the  anteroom  is  locked,  am 
my  lady  has  taken  the  key  to  London." 
"Taken  the  key  !  '  cried  AJi 

"Indeed,  miss,  I  think  she  has.     I  cannot  find  it.   and   il 
to  be  in -the  door." 

"I  i  Alicia   impatiently,  "that  it  is  nor.  at  all  unlik. 

his  silly  freak  into  her  head.     ! 
xoems,  and"  pry  about 
d  meddle  with  her  jewelry.     It  is  very  pnJvoking,  for  th- 

j  are  in  lha|  antechamber.     There   is  her  own   por- 
trait, too,  unfinished,  but  wonderfully 

"Hi       i        it!"  exclai       '  y.  •»  "I  w 

I  have  only  an  imper  >n  of  her 

to  the  roo 

is  there   any 

0  a  corri'l 

anvas  looking  threatei 

low  with  the  l  'he  wanted  to  split '  George's 


48  LAD?  AUDLSY'A  SECRET. 

open,"  said  Mr.  Audley,  pointing  to  afierc'eVarriop,  whose  uplifted  ; 
.  above  George  TalboyV  dark  liaiK 
u'Comc  out  of  this  room,  Alicia/'  added  the   young  man.  nervously;  ' 
'•I  believe  it's  damp,  or  else  haunted.     Indeed,  I  believe' all  ghosts  to  be' 
the  result  of  damp  or  dyspepsia.  >  Vou  sleep  in  n  dampbed— you  awake 
suddenly -in  the  dead  of  the  night  with  a  cold  shiver,  and  sec  an  olu 
in  the  court  costume  of  George  the  First's  time,  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the 
il    lady    is  indigestion,  arid   the  cold,  shiver   is   a  damp 

There  \frere  lighted  candles  in  the  drawing-room.  No  new-fangled 
■amps  ftad  le  their  appearance  at  Audley  Court.     Sir  Michael's 

•rooms  were  lighted  by  honest,  thick,  }  ellow-locking  wax  candles,  in 
ve  silver  candlesticks,  and  in  sconces  against  the  walls. 

There,  was  very  little  to  see  in  the  drawing-room;  and  George  Tal- 
soon  grew  tired  of  staring  at  the'handsome  modern  furniture,  and 
at  a  few  pictures  by  some  of  the  Academieians. 

"Isn't  there  a  secret  passage,  or  an  old  oak  chest,  or  something  of  that 
kind,  somewhere  about  the  plajce,  Alicia?"  asked  Robert.  - 

"To  be  sure!"  cried  Miss  Audley,  with  a  vehemence  that  startled  her 
cousin;  "of  course.  Why  didn't  I- think  of  it  before?  How  stupid  of 
me,  to  be  sure!" 

."  Why  stupid?" 

"Because,  if  you  don't  mind  crawling  upon  your  hands  and  knees,  you 
can  see  my  lady's  apartments,  for  that  very  passage  communicates  with 
her  dressing  room.  She  doesn't  know  of  it  herself,  I  believe.  How" as- 
tonished she'd  be  if  some  blaok-visored  burglar,  with  a  dark  lantern, 
were  to  rise  through  the  floor  some  night  as  she  sat  before  her  looking- 
glass,  having  her  hair  dressed  for  a  party!" 

"Shall  we  try  the  secret  passage,  George?"  asked  Mr.  Audley. 

"Yes,  if  you  wish  it." 

Alicia  led  them  into  the  room  which  had  once  been  her  nursery.  It 
was  now  disused,  except  on  very  rare  occasions  when  the  house  was  full 
of  company.    * 

Robert  Audley  lifted  a  corner  of  the  carpet,  according  to  his  cousin's 
direi  tiens,  and  disclosed  a  rudely-cut  trap-door  in  the  oak  flooring. 

"Now  listen  to  me,"  said  Alicia.  "You  must  let  yourself  down  by 
your  hands  into  the  passage,  which  is  about  four  feet  high;  stoop  your 
head,  and  walk  straight  along  it  till  you  come  to  a  sharp  turn  which  will 
take  you  to  the  left,  and  at  the  extreme  end  of  it  you  will  find  a  short 
ladder  below  a'  trap-door  like  this,  which  you  will  have  to  unbolt;  that 
floor  open*  into^the  flooring  of  my  lady's  dressing-room,  which  is  only 
covered  with  a  square  Persian  carpet  that  you  can  easily  manage  to 
raise.     You  understand  me?" 

"Perfectly."  « 

"Then  take  the  light;  Mr.  Talboys  will  follow  you.  I  gh*e  you  twen- 
ty minutes  for  your  inspection  of  the  paintings — that  is,  about  a  minute 
— and  at  the  end  of  that  time  I  shall  expect  to  see  you  return." 

Robert  obeyed  her  implioitly,  and  George  submissively  followjog  his 


DY  AUDL;  ET.  49 

friend  foui  minutes,  si  elegant  disor- 

I  ouse  in  a  a  her  unlo  y  to  Lon- 

and  the  "whol    ofl  ig  toilette  apparatus  lay  about  on 

>m  was  almo< 
ties  whose  go] 
A   bunch   of  was   Withering 

upon...  lav  •  in  a 

heap  u]  1  the 

backed  hair-b  1  exquisite  <  hi- 

:  re  and  tl  parti    int.     George  Talboya 

saw  !  ellected  in  the  Qhi 

and  •..  •  wo- 

manly luxu 

They  w<  doir,   and  through  the. 

boudoir  inl  which   tlv  .  iieiahad- 

abou'  ides  my  lady's;  porn 

n  an  easel  covered  withagn 
centre  of  the  c»i  ber.     It  had  been  a   fancy  of  the  artist  to 

in  this    .  and  to  make  his  baei 

faithful  reproduction  *of  the  pi  I  am  afraid  the  y< 

belonged  to  the  pre-Rapl  motherhood,  for  he  had  spent  . 

conscionable  time  upon  ipoto  my'  lady's 

nd  the  heavy  folds  of  her  c    .  vet  dress. 

Th  mg  men  looked  at  the  paintings  on  the  Avails  first,  leaving 

portrait  for  a  hnnne  houchc. 

By  this  time  it  was  dark,  the  candle  carried  by  Robert  only  making 

jht  as  he  mov-  g  it  before  the  pic 

tuces  one  The  broad  bare  window  looked   out  upon  the  pale 

sky,  '  •  last  cold   flicker   of  the   twilight.     The  ivy  rustled 

ss  with  the  same  ominoi  h  agitated 

every  leaf  in  the  garden,  prophetic  of  the  storm  that  was 'to  come. 

"Ti  I  '  standing 

before  a  A'.  lolasPoussin — iSulvator — ha — hum!    Now 

for  the  portrait!" 

lie  paused  with  I  aize,  and  solemnly  addressed  his 

friend. 

ilboys,"  h  ietween  Us  only  one  wax  candle, 

which     |d        k  at  a  painl 

look  at 
;  ile  than  anothi 

your  should*  ou're 

•ck  immi  no  more  interest  in 

picture  than  in  all  I  ^  He 

i  out 
at  the  nipbt.         y 

Wben  h  1  he  saw  that  Robert  had 


50  kal  LET'S  SECAET. 

conveniently,  and  that  he  had  seated  himself  on  a  chair  before  it  for  the 
purpose  of  contemplating  the  painting  at  his  leisure. 

He  rose  as  George  turned  round. 

■ 'ow,  then,  for  your  turn,  Tallboys," he  said.     "  It's  an  extraordinary 
picture." 

lie  took  George:s  place  at  the  window,  and  George  seated  himse 
snair  before  the  easel.   ■ 

Yes.,   the  painter   must   have   been    a  pre-Raphaelite.     No  one  but  a 
taphaeljte  would  have   painted,  hair  by  hair,  those  feathery  masses 
'  of  ringlety  with  every  glimmer  of  gold,  and  every  shadow. of  pale  brown, 
le  but  a  pre-Raphaelite  would  have  so  exaggerated  every  attribute 
of  that  delicate  face  as  to  give  a  lurid  brightness  to  the  blonde  complexion, 
strange,  sinister  .light  to   the   deep  blue  eyes.     No  one  but  a  pre- 
Raphaelite  could  have  given  to  that  pretty  pouting  mouth  the  hard  and 
almost  wicked  look  it  had  in  the  portrait. 

It  was  so  like,  arid  yet  so  unlike.  It  was  as  if  you  had  burned  strango- 
colored  fires  before  my  lady's  face,  and  by  their  influence  brought  out 
new  lines  and  new  expressions  never  seen  in  it  before.  The  perfection 
of  feature,  the  brilliancy,  of  coloring,  were  there  ;  but  I  suppose  the 
paiuter  had  copied  quaint  medisevai  monstrosities  until  his  brain  had 
grown  bewildered,  for  my  lady,  in  his  portrait  of  her,  had  something  of 
the  aspect  of  a  beautiful  fiend. 

.Her  crimson  dress,  exaggerated  like  all  the  rest  in  this  strange  picture, 
•  hung  about  her  in  folds  that  looked  like  flames,  her  fair  head  peeping 
out  of  the  lurid  mass  of  color  as  if  out  of  a  raging  furnace.  Indeed,  the 
crimson  dress,  the  sunshine  on  the  face,  the  red  gold  gleaming  in  the 
yellow  hair,  the  ripe  scarlet  of  the  pouting  lips,  the  glowing  colors  .of 
each  accessory  of  the  minutely  painted  background,  all  combined  to 
render  the  first  effect  of  the  painting  by  no  means  an  agreeable  one. 

But  strange  as  the  picture  was,  it  could  not  have  made  any  great  im- 
pression on  George  Talboys,  for  he  sat  before  it.  for  about  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  without  uttering  a  word, — only  staring  blankly  at  the  painted 
oanvas,  vrith-  the  candlestick  grasped  in  his  strong  right  hand,  and  his  left 
arm  hanging  loosely  by  his  side.  He  sat  so  long  in  this  attitude,  that 
Robert  turned  round  at  last. 

"  Why,  George,  I  thought  you  had  gone  to  sleep !" 

"  I  had  almost." 

'•  You've  caught  a  cold  from  standing  in  that  damp  tapestried  room. 
Mark  my  word,  George  Talboys,  you've  caught  a  cold ;  you  are  as  hoarse 
as  a  raven.     But  come  along." 

Robert  Audley  took  the  candle  from  his  friend's  hand,  and  crept  back 
through  the  secret  passage,  followed  by  George — yery  quiet,  but  scarcely 
more  quiet  than  usual.  - 

They  found  Alicia  in  the  nursery  waiting  for  thCm. 
•Well?1'  she  said  interrogatively. 

"  We  manage*  it  capitally.  But  I  don't  like  the  portrait ;  there's 
something  odd  about  it." 

"  There  is,"  said  Alicia ;  "  I've  a  strange  fancy  on  that  point.     I  think 


LADY  AUDREY'S  SECRET.  51 

•  tha', .sometimes'  a  painter  is   in   a   manner  inspired,  and  i>;  able  to 
through,  the  normal  expression  ofjtho  face, "another  expression  that  is 
equally  a  part  of  it,  though  not  to  lie  perceived  by  common  eyes.      We, 
have  never  seen  ly  look  ,as  she  does  in  that  picture  ;  but  1  think 

tiiat  alio  co%uld  I 

,"  said  bloberfc  Audle/,  imploringlv,  "don't  be  German.'!" 

"But,,  .Robert '  •  ,.  ' 

German,- 'Alicia,  if  you  love   me.     The  picture;  is — the 
picture  ;  -my  lady.     That's  my  -way  of  taking  things, 

and  1':  hysical ;  don't  unsettle  me.'.' 

He  ral  times  with  an  air  of  terror  that  was  perfectly  • 

and  then,  having  borrowed    an   urn  i  ease  of  being  over- 

ly the  j  he  Court,  leading  passive  Geuigr  Tal- 

away  with  him.     The.  one  ha       i  stupid  clock  had  skipped  to 

nine. by  the  time  they  reached  the  archway  ;'bui  before  they  could  pass 
under  its  shadow  they  had  to  step  aside  to  allow  a  carriage, to  dash  by 
then'.  It  was  a  fly  from  the  village,  but  Lady  Audlcy's  fair  face  peeped 
out  at  the  window.  Dark  as  it,  was,  she  could  see  the  two  figures  of  the 
young  men  black  against  the  dusk. 

"Who  is  that?"  she  asked,  putting  out  her  head.  "  Is  it  the  gar- 
dener?" 

"No,  my  dear  aunt,"  said  Robert,  laughing;  "  it  is  your  most  dutiful 
nephew." 

He  and  George  stopped  by  the  arch- way  while  the  fly  drew  up  at  the 
doo'r,  and  the  surprised  servants  came  out  to  welcome  their  master  and 
mistress. 

"  I  think  the  storm  will  hold  off  to-night,"  said  the  baronet,  looking 
up  at  the  sky  :  "  but  wo  shall  certainly  have  it  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

4.FTKR    THK    BTOBM. 

Michael  was  mistaken  in  his  prophecy  upon  the  weather.  The 
storm  did  not  hold  off  until  next  day,  but  bufst  with  terrible  fury  over 
the  vilhige  of  Audley  about  half  an  hour  before  midnight. 

Robert  /  udley  tooft  the  thunder  and  lightning  will)  the  same  compo- 
sure with  which  he  Us  of  life,  lie  lay  on  a  sofa 
in  th'  usibly  reading  tin-  five-d  '  heimsford  pa- 
per, and  r<  galing  hirnse'i  ally  with  a  few  sips  from  a  largo  tum- 
bler of  cold  pui  I  th''  st.>rm  had  quite  *  different  effect  upon 
George  Talboy*.      I                I  was  startled  when  he  looked  at  the  young 


CRET 

-   white  face  :is  he  pen  window  li  o  the 

rent  every  now  and !  iked 

streaks  of  steel-blue  lightniri 

'•C  r  watching  him  for  som 

frightened  of  the  lightning 
••  No,"  he  answer* 

"But,  di  -most  en         ■•      '•   men  have  been  fright? 

euedofit.  ;  it  is  .constitutional.     : 

sure  you  are  frightened  of  it." 
.  ;n  not." 

>eorge,  if  you  could  see  yourself,  white  and  ,         .    I;  with  your 
treat  hollow  eyes  starting  out  at  the  sky  as  if  they   were  fixed  upon  a 
|     II  you  I  know  that  lightened."' 

And  I  tell  you  that  I  am 
"George  Talboys,  you  are  not  only  afraid  of 'the  .'lightning,  but  you 
are  savage  with  yourself  for  being* afraid,  and  with  me  for  telling  you  of 
your  fear." 

"Robert  Audley,*  if  you  say  another  word  to  me,  I  shall  knock  you 
down,"  cried  George,  furiously  :  having  said  which,  Mr.  Talboys  strode 
out  of  the  room,  banging  the  door  after,  him  with  a  violence  that  shook 
the  hduse.  Those  inky  clouds,  which  had  shut  in  the  sultry  earth  as  if 
with  a  roof  of  hot  iron,  poured  out  their  blackness  in  a  sudden  deluge  as 
George  left  the  room ;  but  if  the  young  man  was  afraid  of  the  lightning, 
he  certainly  was  not  afraid  of  the  rain;  for  he  walked  straight  down 
stairs  to  the  inn  door,  and  went  out  into  the  wet  high  road.  He  walked 
up  and  down,  up  and  down,  in  the  soaking  sho.wer  for  abouttwenty  min- 
utes, and  then,  re-entering  the  inn,  strode  up  to  his  bedroom. 

Robert  Audley  met  him  on  the.  landing,  with  his  hair  beaten  about 
his  white  face,  and  his  garments  dripping  wet. 
"  Are  you  going  to  bed,  George  ?" 
« Yes."  s 

"But  you  have  no  candle." 
"  I  don't  want  one." 

"But  look  at  your  clothes,  man!     Do  you  see   the  wet  streaming 
n  your  coat-sleeves  1     What  on  earth  made  you  go  out  uponsuch  a 
night?" 

"  I  am  tired,  and  want  to  go  t^bed' — don't  bother  me." 
"You'll  take  some  hot  brandy-and- water,  George?" 
Robert  Audley  stood  in  his  friend's  way  as  he  spoke,  anxious  to  pre- 
vent his  going  to  bed  in  the  state  he  was  in ;  but  George  pushed  him 
fiercely  aside,  and,  striding  past  him,  said,  in  the  same  hoarse  voice  Ro- 
bert had  noticed  at  the  Court — 

"  Let  me  alone,  Robert  Audley,  and  keep  clear  of  me  if  you  can." 
Hubert  followed  George  to  his  bedroom, -But  the  young  man  banged 
the  door  in  his  face;  so  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  leave  Mr.  Tal- 
boys to  himself,  to  recover  his  temper  as  best  he  might. 

"  He  was  irritated  at'°my  noticing  his  terror  of  the  lightning,"  thought 
Robert,  as  he  calmly  retired  to  rest,  serenely  indifferent  to  the  thunder, 


LA]  .53 

whir  lightning  playing  fitfully 

\  Juiet  f  Audley,  and  v, 

fas  ti    see  bright  sunshine!  and  a 

is  bedroom  window. 

times  suc- 

ig  loud  and  cheerily,  the  yellow  corn  up] 

K'kK   and    '.v  aved  arp  tussle  with 

liivh  had  'i  ii  at  down  the  I  with 

ig   rain-  half  the   nigh        jough..    The  vii 

cl  list'  '  shakJ 

ray  and  tendril.     • 
r  him  at  the  b 

lil — if  anything,  indeed', 
irful  than  usual. 

old  hearty 
ter  for  which   he   ha 

•wrecked  I 

id,   frankly,  "  for  my  surly  tern] 
night.     You  were  quite  correct  in  your  assertion;  the  thunderstorm  de'tf 
upset  me.     It  always  had  the  same  effect  upon  me  in  my  youth.'* 

.  "Poor  old  boy  !     Shall   we  go   up   by   I  shall  we  stop 

here  and  dine  with  my  uncle  to-. 

"To  tell   the  truth,   Bob.  1  w<   ■  .  a  glorious 

morning.  Suppose  we  stroll  about,  all  day,  take  another  turn  \vith  the 
rod  and  line,  and  go  up  to  town  by  the  train  that  leaves  lure  at  G-15  in 
the  eveaii 

Robert  Audley  would  have  assented  to  a  far  more  disagreeable  pro- 
position than  this,  rather  than  have  taken  the  trouble  ;•  his  friend, 
so  thi                                             .                                     iey  bad  finished 
their                                                        lock  dinner,  Grt 
the  fishing 
with  hi 

But  if  lb  Audley  had  been  un- 

disturbed by  1  thunder  that  shook  th<  nda- 

Inn,  it  b  ibili- 

f  his  unci-  ilfterribly 

frightened  of  the 
of  tb'  3  her,  she 

soun-,  heart  bad  . 

known  a  I  ...  his 

I 

;. 

hour 

. 
■ 


. 

Toward  four  o'clock  I  ',  who  spent  the  night,  in  watching  by 

her.bedside,  saw  her  dtnp  Off  into  leep,   from  [■•'mot 

;i wake  for  nearly  live*  hours. 

But  she  cairfe  into  die  breakfast-room,  at  half-past  nine  o'clock,  sirring 
a  little  Scotch  melody,   her  checks  tinged  with  as  delicate  a  pink  a 
rale  hue  of  her  muslin  morning  dr  '   die. birds  at: 

she  seemed  to  recover  1*  i  and  joyousness   in   the  inorninf. 

shine.     She  tripped  lightly  oat  on  to  the  lawn,  gathering  a -hist  1'mg 
rosebud  here  and   there,  and  a  sprig  or  two  of  geranium,  and'retui 
'through  the   dewy   grass,   warbling   long   cadence  for  very  hatpin 
heart,  and  looking  as  fresh  and  radiant  as  the  flowers  in  hor  hands.     The 
baronet  caught  her  in  his  strong  arms  as   >#  rough  the  open 

window. 

•  "  My  pretty  one,"  he  said,-  "  my  darling,  what  happiness  to  see  your 
own  merry  self  again  !  Do  you  know,  Lucy,  that  once  last  night,  when 
sou  looked  out  through  the  dark  green  bed-curtains,  with  your  poor, 
white  face,  and  the  purple  rims  round  your  hollow  eyes,  I  had  almost  a 
difficulty- to  recbgni?e  my  little  wife  in  that  ghastly,  terrified,  agohized- 
uk  creature,  crying  out  about  the  storiru  Thank  God  j'or  the  morn- 
ing sun,  which  has  brought  back  the'rosy  cheeks  and  the  bright  smile ! 
.[  hope  to  Heaven,  Lucy,  I  shall  never  again  see  you  look  as  you  did 
last,  night!" 

She  stood  on  tiptoe  to  kiss  him,  and  was  then  only  tall  enough  to 
reach  his  white  beard.  She  told  him,  laughing,  that  site  had  always  been 
a  silly,  frightened  .creature — frightened  of  dogs,  frightened  of  cattle, 
frightened  of  a  thunderstorm,  frightened  of  a  rough  sea.  "Frightened 
of  every  thing  and  every  body  but  my  dear  noble,  handsome  husband," 
she  said. 

She  had  found  the  carpet  in  her  dressing-room  disarranged,  and  had  in- 
quired into  the  mystery  of  the  secret  passage.  She  chid  Miss  Alicia  in 
a  playful,  laughing  way,  for  her  boldness  in  introducing  two  great  men 
into  my  lady's  rooms. 

l-  And  they  had  the  audacity  to  look  at  my*picture,  Alicia,"  she  said, 
with  mock  indignation.  "  1  found  the  baize  thrown  on  the  ground,  and 
a  great  man's  glove  on  the  carpet.     Look  !"  *. 

She  held  up  a  thick  driving  glove  as  she  spoke.  It  was  George's, 
which  he  had  dropped*  while  looking  at  the  picture. 

"  1  shall  go  up  to  the  Sun,  and  ask  those  boys  to  dinner,"  Sir  Michael 
said,  as  he  left  the  Court  upon  his  morning  walk  round  his  farm. 

Lady  Audley  rlitted  from  room  to  room  in  the  bright  September  sun- 
shine—now sitting  down  to  the  piano  to  trill  out  a  ballad,  or  the  fipst 
page  of  an  Italian  bravura,  or  running  with  rapid  fingers  through  a  bril- 
liant waltz — now  hovering  about  a  stand  of  hot-house  flowers,  doing  am- 
atuer  gardening  with  a  pair  of  fairy-like,  silver-mounted  embroidery 
scissors — now  strolling  into  her  dressing-room  to  talk  to  Phoebe' Marks, 
and  have  her  curls  rearranged  for  the  third  or  fourth  time:  for  the  ring- 
lets were  always  getting  into  disorder,  and  gave  no  little  trouble  to  Lady 
Awdlev's  maid. 


>o 


M  tiried,  on  this  particular  September  day,  restless  from  very 

j'oybusness  of  spirit,  and  unable  to  stay'long  in  one  place,  or  occupy  her- 
ritbj  one  thing. 

While  Catty  Audley  amused  herselfin  her  own  frivolo'.is  fashion,  the 
1  strolled  slowly  along  the  margin  of  a  stream  until 

net  where  the-water  was  deep  and  still;  and  the  lung 
»       B  trailed  into  the  bro 

George  Tal hoys  took  the  fishing-rod:  while  Kobcrt  stretched  hi' 
nt  full  i  a  railway  rug;  and  balancing  his  hat  upon  his  nos 

screen  fi        the  sunshine,  fell  fast  asleep. 

The  happy  fish  in  th  lie  hanks   of  which  Mr. 

might  have  unused  themselves  to  th' 
s  i tli  timid  nibbles  at  this  n's  bait,  without  in  any 

ner  e  ired  vacantly"  at  the 

water,  holding  his  rod  in  a  loose,  list!  -  -  hand,  and  with  a  strange  far- 
awav  look  in  his  eyes.  As  the  church,  clock  struck  two  he  threw  down 
his  rod,  and  striding  away  along  the  bank,  left  Kobe  ft  Audley  to  enjoy 
a  nap  which,  according  to  that  gentleman's  habits,  was  by  no  means  un- 
likely to  last  for  two  or  three  hours.  About  a  quarter  of  a  mile  further 
on  George  crossed  a  rustic  bridge,  and  struck  into,  the  meadow*  which 
led  to  Audley  Court. 

The  birds  had  sung  so  much' all  the  morning,  that  they  had,  perhaps, 
by  this  time  grown  tired  ;  the  lazy  cattle uw<  re  asleep  in   the  men 
Sir  Mich*  ill  away  on  his  morning's  ramble  ;  Miss  Alicia  had 

scampered  off  an  hour  before  upon  her  chestnut  mare;  the  servants  were 
all  at  dinner  in  the  back  part  of  the  house;  and  my  lady  had  strolled, 
hook  in  hand,  into  the  shadowy  lime-walk ;  so  the  gray  did  building  had 
never  worn  a  more  peaceful  aspect  thai  on  that  bright  afternoon  when 
George  Tal  boys  walked  across  the  lawn  to  ring  a  sonorous  peal  at  the 
sturdy,  iron-bound  oak  door. 

The  servant  who  answered  his  summons  told  him  that.  Sir  Michael 
was  out,  and  my  lady  walking  in  the  lime-tree,  avenue. 

He  looked  a  little,  disappointed  at  this  intelligence,  and  muttering 
something  about  wishing  to  see  my  lady,  or  going  to  look  for  my  lady 
(the  sen  ant  did  not  clearly  distinguish  his  words),  strode  away  from  the 
door  without  leaving  either  card  or  message  for  the  family. 

It  was  full  an  hour  and  a  Half  after  this  when  Lady  Audley   returned 
to  the  house,  not  coming  from  tho  lime-walk,  but  no:  exactly  the  oppo- 
site direction,  can  opon   Book  in  her  hand,  and  singing  a 
came.     Alicia  had  just  dismounted  from  her  mare,  and  stood  in  tl  • 
arched  doorway,  with  her  great  Newfoundland  dog  by  her  Bid 

The  dog,  which  had  n&ver  liked  my  lady,  showed  his  teeth  with  a 
ed  r^rowl. 

"Send  that  horrid  animal  away.  Alicia,"  Lady  Dudley  said,  imp.".' 
lv.     "The  bro  .•  F  him,  and  takes  advantage 

of  my  terror.  !        ey   call   the  ereatUi 

natur  i.  C*o»sr!    I  hate  you.  and  you  h 


the  dark  in  some  narrow  passage  you  would  fly  at  my  throat  a*nd 
le  mo,  wouldn 
. 
curls' at  the  angry  anirn;  .im  maliciously. 

»o  you  klip  that  Mr.  Talboys,  the  yo  >w6r, 

lms "i  ;d  for  you?" 

Ln  ,  eyebrows.     "\t 

loughof  theml 
Sin  •  of  wild   autumn   flowers  in  the  skirt  of  lie r  muslin *' 

hrough  the  fields  at  the  back  of  the  Court,  gather- 
blossoms  in  hoi  road 
6  her  own  rooms.     Ge>u.                                                        table. 
1.     r  Audley  ttog '  the  be)}   violently,  "am                               by  Phoebe 
'Mark                                                                          rply.     The  girl  collected 

..  and  torn  papers  lying  on  the  table 
her  apron. 
"What  havo  y<  doing  all   this  morning  ?"  asked  my  lady. 

wasting  your  lime,  I  hope  1" 
••  No,  my  lady,  I  have  been  altering  the  blue  dress.     It  is  rather  dark 
is  side  of  the  house,  so  J  took  it  up  to  my  own  room,  and  worked 
at  the  window." 

The  girl  was  leaving  the  room  as  she  spoke,  but  she  turned  round  and 
looked  at  Lady  Audley  as  if  waiting  for  further  orders. 
*   Lucy  looked  up  at  the  same  moment,  and  the  eyes  of  the  two  women 

■ 
"  Phoebe  Marks,"  said  my  lady,'  throwing  herself  into  an  easy  chair, 
and  trifling  with  the  wild  flowers  in  her  lap,  "you  are  a  good,  industrious 
and  while  I  live  and  am  prospered    you   shall  never  want  a  firm 
friend  or  a  twenty-pound  note." 


CHAPTER  X. 


When  Robert  Audley  awoke  he  was, surprised  to  see  the  fishingvrod 
lying  on  the  bank,  the  line  trailing  idly  in  the  water,  and  the  float  bob- 
up  and  down  in  the  afternoon  sunshine.  The  young 
barrister  was  a  long  time  stretching  his  aims  and  legs  in  various  direc- 
tions to  convince  himself,  by  means  of  such  exercise,,  that  he  still  re- 
tained the  proper  use  of  those  members;  then,  with  a  mighty  effort,  he 
contrived  t.o  rise  from  the  grass,  and  having  deliberately  folded  his  rail- 


RET. 

Lieut  shape   for   carrying   o\ 
> 

.    I 

trout  in 
bet';  but;  r<  ad  answer,  grew  tired  of  the  i 

- 
"  \\  pe  to  his  dinner  •! 

;  ■ 

j 

i 

and  * 

"  This  is  lively !"   he  said.     "A  cold  dinner,  and  nobody 

Will: 

The  landlord  of  the  San   came   himself  .to  apologize  for  his  ruined 

"As  fine  a  pair  of  .  wulley,  as  over  you  clapped 

but  burnt  up  to  a  cinder,  along  of  being  kep'  hot."f 
."Never  mind  the  ducks,"  Robert  -  ■-.tiently  ;  "whore's  Mr. 

'"He  ain't  been  in,  sir,  since  you  went  out  together,  this 

rt.     ''Why,  in  Heaven's  name,  what  has- the' 
with  himself?1' 
He  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out  upon  the  broad,  white  high 
road.     !'i  aden  with  trusses  of  bay   crawling  s 

.  !he  lazy  h  d  the  lazy  wagoner  drpopii  g  their  ith  a 

weary  stoop  under  the  afternoon  si 

;  about  th  ith  a  dog  runnii  in  the 

!    I 
d  I a» in  v.. 

of  th< 

1 


58  '^ 

uicstion  v.  look  for  him.     lie  certainly  wa 

by  the  trout  si  ■  ;o'6d  going  bacl>,th<  ':hul' 

him.     Robert' \  ding  before/.the  inn,   dcliberatipg  on  %that  Was 

best  to  be  .done,  when  the  landlord  came  out  after  him. 

forgot  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Audley,  as  how  your  uncle  called  hero 
minutes   after  ge  asking  of  you  and  the 

tleinan  to  go  down  to  dinner  at  the  Court." 

"Then  I  shouldn't  w  if  .George  has' 

gone  down   to  the  Court  to  call  upon  my  uncle.     It  isn't  like  him,  but 
•it's  just  possible  that  he  has  done  it."  ' 
".jltwas   six  o  rt  knocked   at  the  door  of  hi 

lie  did  not  ask  to  see  any  of  the  famiW|LL.  od  at  once 

is  friend. 
,  the  servant  tdld  him  ;  Mr.  Talboys  had  been  there  at  two  o'clock, 
or  a  little  after. 

"And  not  since!" 

"  No,  not  sim 

Was  the  man  sure  that  it  was  at  two  Mr.  Talboys  called?  Robert  as1 

"  Yes,  perfectly  sure.  He  remembered  the  hour  because  u,  was  the 
servants'  dinner  hour,  and  he  had  left  the  table  to  open  the  door  to  Mr. 
Talboys."  N 

"Why,  what  can  have  become  of  the  man1?"  thought  Robert,  as  he 
turned  his  back  upon  the  Court.  "  From  two  till  six — four  good  hours 
— -and  no  signs  of  him  !"' 

If  any  one  had  ventured  to  tell  Mr.  Robert  Audley  that  he  could 
possibly' feel  a  strong  attachment  to  any  creature  breathing,  that  cynical 
gentleman  would  have  elevated  his  eyebrows  in  supreme  contempt  at 
the  preposterous  notion.  Yet  here  he  was,  flurried  and  anxious, 
wildering  his  brain  by  all  manner  of  conjectures  about  his  missing  friend; 
and,  false  to  every  attribute  of  his  nature,  walking  fast. 

"I  haven't  walked   fast  since   I   was  at   Eton,"  he  murmured,  as  he 
hurried  across  one  of  Sir' Michael's  meadows  in  the  direction  of  the  vil- 
"and  the  worst  of  it  is.,  that  I  haven't  the  most  remote  idea  where 
I  am  going,"  • 

He  crossed  another  meadow,  and  then  seating  himself  upon  a  stile, 
rested  his  elbows  upon  his  knees,  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  set 
himself  seriously  to  think  the  matter  out. 

"I  have  it!"  he  said,  after  a  f«aw  minutes'  thought;  "the  railway 
station  !''  He  sprang  over  the  stije,  and  started  off  in  the  direction  of 
the  little  red  brick  building.. 

There  was  no  train  expected  for  another  half  hour,  and  the  clerk  'was 
taking  his  tea  in  an  apartment  on  one  side  of  the  office,  on  the  door  of 
which  \vas  inscribed,, in  large  white  letters,  "Private." 

But  Mr.  Audley  was  too  much  occupied  With  the  one  idea  of  looking 
for  his  friend  to  pay  any  attention  to  this  warning.  He  strode  at  once 
to  the  door,  and  rattling  his  cane  against  it,  brought  the  clerk  out  of  his 
sanctum  in  a  perspiration  from"hot  tea,  and  with  his  mouth  full  of  bread 
and  butter. 


J,ADY  AUDLf  LET.,  5$ 

"Do  you  r  the  gentleman. that  ca(ne  down  tb  Ai: 

me,  Smithers  V'  a: ' 

:'  Well,  to  tell  you  the  real  truth,  Mr.  Audley,  I  cairt  say  I  d 
camet'.by  the  four  f  you  remember,  and  th 

v  that  train.*'"' 
"ou  don'1  r  him,  thou?'' 

ir." 
•     "Tin:".-  ug!        ■  ant  to  know,  Smithers,  whethi 

London  since  two  o'clook  to-day!     He's  a  tall, 

.villi  a.  bis;   brown  beard.     You  couldn't,  well   mi 
him.* 

'•'!  ■•   as   took   tickets'for  the. 3.30  up,"., 

said  i  rather  vap. i  m  anxious glance.oyer hisshoulder 

at  his  wife,  who  looked  by  no  it  this  interrupt 

harmony  of  the  tea-table. 

ourOrfive  gentlemen!     But  did   either   of  them  ai 
description  of  my  friend 

"  Well,  1  think  one  of  them  had  a  beard,  sir." 
*'  A  dark-brown  beard?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  but  what  it  was  brownish- like." 
"  Was  he  dressed  in  gray  V' 

"I  believe   it  was  gray;  a  great   many  gents  we;. 
for  the  ticket  sharp  .and  short  like,  and  when  he'd  got  it  walk< 
out  on  to  the  platform  whistling." 

"That's  George  !*' said    Robert.     "Thank   y#u,   Smithers;    I  needn't 
trouble   you   any   more.    'It's   as   clear  as  daylight,"  he  muttered,  as  he 
left   tho  station,   he's  got  one  of  his  gloomy  (its  on  him,  and  .he's 
back  to  London  without  saying  a  word  about  it.     I'll  leave  Audley  my- 
self to-morrow  morning;  and  for  to-night — why,  I  may  as  well  go  down 
Court  and  make  the  acquaintance  of  my  uncle's  young  wifei    They 
don't  dine   till   seven;   if  I  get  back   across  the  fields  I  .--hall  b 
Bob — otherwise  Robert  Audley — this  sort  of  thing  will  never  do  ; 
are  falling  over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  your  aunt." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

TUK    MARK  DP08  MY  LADY'S  WRIST. 


Robert  found   Sir  Michael  and   Lady  Audley  in  the  di  ■>w\0 

My  lady  was  sitting 

over   '  She  twirled  round  upon  tbi 

volving  g«at,   making   »    rustling  with  her  silk  fl<">unfp«,  a«  Mr.  Knb»rt' 


LAjft  A; 

Audley's  narrn  then,  leaving  the  piano,  she  i 

nephew  a  pcetfv 

iuoh  for  ti.       -  said,  '.hold!  her.'K.ttle 

and  twinkling  with    tin    diamonds  she  wore  upon 
leautifal  sables, 
to  ge 

Rob  /most  forgotten  the  commission  he  had  executed  For 

dy  Al  an   expedition.     Ij is   mind' was  •* 

at  he   only ■  acknowledged  my  lady's  gratitude  by"  a 

ieve  it,  Sir  Michael  ?"  he  said.     "  TI;.:!  foolish  chum 
ck  to  London,  leavin  Jic .lurch;", 

e  Talboys  returned  to  to  \  a  ?"  exclaimed  my  lady,  lifting 

. 'hat  a  dreadful  Lmphe I"  said  Alicia,  maliciously,  "  since  Py- 

i'.  Robert'  Audley,  cannot  exist  for  half  an  hour 
without  Damon,  commonly  known  as  George  Talboys." 

very  good  fellow,"   Robert  said  stoutly;  "and  to  tell  the', 
honest  truth,  I'm  rather  uneasy  about  him." 

Um  it  him  !     My  lady  was  quite  anxious  to  know  why  Robert 

was  uneasy^ibout  his  friend. 

"I'll  tell  ypu  why,  Lady  Audley,"  answered  the  young  barrister. 
"George  had  a  bitter  blow  a  year  ago  in  the  death  of  his  wife.  He  has 
never  got  over  that  trouble.  _  He  takes  life  pretty  quietly — almost  as 
quietly  as  I  do, — but  he  often  talks  very  strangely,- and  I  sometimes 
think  I  day  i his  grief  will  get.  the  better  of  him,  and  he'll  do 

something  rash."  .  \ 

Mr.  Robert  Audley  spoke  vaguely,  but  all  three  of  his  listeners  knew 
that  tl  •  bing  rash  to  which  he  alluded  was  that  one  deed  for  which' 
there  is  no  repentance. 

There  /Wfts  a  brief  pause,  during  which  Lady  Audley  arranged  her  yel- 
low ringlets  by  the  aid  of  the  glass  over  the  console  table  opposite  to  her. 
"Dear   me!"  she  said,  "this   is  very   strange.     I  did  not   think  men 
capmbleiof  these  deep  and  lasting  affections.     I  thought  that-one 
pretty  lace  was  as  good. 'as  another  pretty  face  to  the  that  when 

me  with  blue  eyes  and  fair  hair  died,  they  had  only  to  look  out 
for  number  two,  with  dark  eyes  and  black  hair,  by  way  of  variety." 

"George .Talboys  is  not  one  of  those  men.  I  firmly  believe  that  his 
wife  death  broke  his  heart." 

"How    sail  !""  murmured    Lady    Audley..  "It  seems  almost  cruel  of 

Tall   >\s  to  die,  and  grieve  her  poor  husband  so  much." 
'Alicia   was  right;  she  is  childish,"  thought  Robert  as  he  looked  at 
his  aunt's  pretty  face. 

My  Inly   was   very  charming  at  the  dinner-table;  she  professed  the 
most  bewitching  incapacity  for  carving  the  pheas.ant  set  before  her,  and 
3sistauoe. 
"•  1  •  e.  a  leg  of  mutton  at  Mr.  Dawson's,"  she  said,  laughing; 

"  but  a  leg  of  mutton  is  k>  easy;  and  then  Fused  to  stand  up." 


LAKY  A'  SECRET.  Gl 

lia.el  wat<  i  my  lady  ,  on  his  ne 

in  her  usj 
ilh  in  Loi 

■ 

she  was  d;  # 

.aii).  .1  mu-  to  her  im 

from  thai 

•»* 

ll  is  i 

inquiries  at  the  few  shops   th 

mble,  i  ould  "discover  nothing  wha 
tion  we  wanted.     I  have  no  f 

husband,  whu  did  all  in  I 
but  ii  my  friend's  new  r 

■    "It  lish  not   to  send  the  address  in  tl 

• 
%;  V-  >le  are  dying  i!  is  ifc>tso  easy  to  think  of  all  these  thil 

murmured  my  lady,  looking  reproachfully  at  Mr.  Audlej 
blue  eyes. 

In  spite  of  Lady  Audley's  fascination,   and  in  spite  of  Robe  t*s  very 
uUqalified  admrratidn  of  her,  the  barrister  could  not 

,  this  null  * 

As  he  satin  the  deep  emo  famullioned  window,  fcalkii 

e  Court,  and  he 
Talbjys  smoking  his  solitary  cigar  in  the  i 
with 

"1    wish    l*d   nev 

• 
him.     I  v  i.sli  to  I  leaven  I    o<  d  give  him  1  I  him 

■  to  Ventnor  to  finish  hi  peace." 

war) 

lb  •;"  him  hu 

in   the   7 

BtitTftt  ti  •  "  i  with  hi? 

Li 

thinking 


(,->  LALn   AUPUEY'i 

"George'Taiboys,"  he  answered  abruptly. 
iittlc.  nervous  shudder. 

word,"  she  said,  "you  make  me  quite  uncomfortable Ly 
the  way  in  which  you  talk  of  Mr.  Taiboys.     One  would  think  that  3< 
thing  extraordinary  had  happened  to  him.''  ^ 

"God  forbid  !    "But  I  cannot  help  feeling  uneasy  about  him.1' 
Later  in  the  evening  Sir  Michael   asked  for  some  music,  and  my  lady  . 
went  to  the  piano.     Robert  A,udley  strolled  after  her  to  the  instrument 
ver   the   leaves  of  Tier  music:  but  she  played  from  memory, 
he   was  spared  the  trouble  his  gallantry  would  have  impo^ 

; 

earned  a  pair  of  lighted  candles  to  the  piano,  and  arranged  them 

:iy   for   the  jpretty   muemian.     She   struck  a  few   chords,  and 

then  into  a  pensive  sonata  of  Beethoven's.     It  was  one  of  the 

many  paradoxes  in   her  character,  that  love  of  sombre  and  melancholy 

,  so  opposite  to  her  gay.  frivolous  nature. 

JRobert  Audley  lingered  by  her  side,  and  as  he  had  no  occupation  in 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  her  music,  he  amused  himself  by  watching 
her  jewelled,  white  hands  gliding  softly  over  the  keys,  with  the  lace 
sleeves  dropping  away  from  her  graceful' arched  wrists.  He  looked  at 
her  pretty  fingers  one  by  one ;  this  one  glittering  with  a  ruby  heart ; 
that  encircled  by  an  emerald  serpent;  and  about  them  all  a  starry  glitter  * 
■of  diamonds.  From  the  lingers  his  eyes  wandered  to  the  rounded 
;  the  broad,  flat,  gold  bracelet  upon  her  right  wrist  dropped  over 
her  hand,  as  she  executed  a  rapid  passage.  She  stopped  abruptly  to  re- 
arrange it;  but  before  she  could  do  so  Robert  Audley  noticed  a  bruise 
upon  her  delicate  skin. 

"Tou  have  hurt  your  arm,  Lady  Audley  !"  he  exclaimed. 
1   She  hastily  replaced  the  bracelet. 

"It  is  uothingj"  she  said.  "I  am  unioittmate  in  having  a  skin  which 
the  slightest  touch  bruises." 

She  went  on  playing,  but  Sir  Michael  came  across  the  room  to  look 
into  the  matter  of  the  bruise  upon  his  wife's  pretty  wrist. 

«'  What  is  it,  Lucy  ?"  he  asked  ;  "and  how  did  it  happen?" 

"  How  foolish  you  all  are  to  trouble  yourselves  about  anything  so  ab- 
surd !"  said  Lady  Audley,  laughing.  "I  am,r'ather  absent  in  mind,  and 
amused  myself  a  few  days  ago  by  tying  a  piece  of  ribbon  round  my  arm 
so  tightly,  that  it  left  a  bruise  w heu  I  removed  it."  .    ' 

"  Hum  !"  thought  Robert.     "  My  lady  tells  little  childish  white  lies  ; 
the  bruise  is  of  a  more  recent  date  than  a  few  days  ago  ;  the  skin  has 
only  just  begun  to  change  color." 
i     Sir  Michael  took  the  slender  wrist,  in  his  strong  hand. 

"  Hold  the  candles,  Robert,"  he  said,  "  and  let  us  look  at  this  poor 
little^  arm." 

It  was  not  one  bruise,  but  four  slender,  purple  marks,  such  as  might 
have  been  made  by  the  four  fingers  of  a  powerful  hand  that  had  grasped 
the  delicate  wrist  a  shade  too  roughly.  A  narrow  ribbon,  bound  tight- 
ly, might  have  left  some  suoh  marks,  it  is  feme,  and  my  lady  protested 


■-    -  63 

once  more  thai  .'her  recollection',  that  must  have  been  how 

•e  made. 
Across  one  of  the  faint  pur  [arkcr  tingej  as  if  a* 

orn  ortoue  <"  .  id  been  ground  into 

bder  flesh. 
"  [  a,n:  s*ure  i 

rytjf  the,  ribbo 
wished  his  relations  \  at  about  half-] 

i  run  up  to  London  by  the  first  train 
in  Fig  tree  i  'onrt. 
"If  Idoi  •  tq  I  shall  go  to  Southampton,"  he  said  ;  ''and 

n't  find  hi  — —'" 

"I  shall  think  thatsomethi  I." 

slowly    h 
twceu 

the  sitting-room  at  the  Sun  Inn,  v.  :  :id  Geor  imgqd  to- 

gether, staring  out  of  the  window  and  smoking  their 

''  To  think,"  he  said  meditatively.  ■•  that  it  is  ■ 
for  a  fellow  !     But  come  what  may,  I'll  go  up  to  first 

thing  to-morrow  morning,  and,  sooner  than  bo  balked  in  finding  hiin,  I'll 
the  very  end  of  the"  world.',' 

With  Mr.  Robert  Audley's  lymphatic  nature,  determination  -was  so 
much  the  exception  rather  than  the  rule,  that  when  he  did  for  once  in  his 
life  resolve  upon  any  course  of  action,  he  had  a  certain  dogged,  iron-ljke 
obstinacy  that  pushed  him  oh  to  the  fulfilment  of  his  purp 

The  lazy  bent  of  his  mind,  which  prevented  him  from  thinking  of  half 

a  dozen  things  at  a  time,  and  not  thinking  thoroughly  of  any. one  of  them, 

as  is  the  manner  of  your  more  energetic  people,  made  him  remarkably 

ed  upon  any  point  to  which  he  ever  gave  his  serious  attention. 

Indeed,  after  all.  though  solemn   benchers  laughed  at  him,  and  rising  _ 
barristers  shrugged  their  shoulders  under  rustling  oilk  gowns  when 
pie  spoke  of  Robert  Audley,  1  doubt  if,  had  he  ever  taken  the  trouble  to 
get  a  brief,  he  might  not  have  rather  surprised  the  magnates  who  under- 
rated his  abilities. 


CHAPTEE 

STILL  MISSING. 


iiier  sunlight    sparkled   upon  the  fountain  in  the  Temple 
•us  when  Robert  Audley  returns 
lowi»g  morning. 


64  lad:  AlDL;  • 

t  the  pretty  little  rpom  hi  >otge 

im  order    iu     • 
laundress  had  arrfti  r  the. departure  of  the  t.\yo  youi 

h    lid  of  a  cigar-box  lit' 

...  >,  lingering  hoj 
bed  upon  the  mantel-pieces  and  tables  of  his  rooms,  on  :  li< 

,ge. 
••  i  pe' slept  here  las', , nigh'  tar-ted   for  Sou 

morning."- he  thought.     "Mrs.  Mnlony   lias    oven   here   very 
.  y  thing  tidy  after  him.'' 

y  tround  th  '    hen   v  histling 

is,  a  slipsh*  fcaircase  without  bo- 

ut of  that  very  Mrs.  M.u  aited  upon"  the  two 

in  as  ear; 
e  chambers,  en 
•■  Had  anything  happened  to-  the  poor,  dear  gentleman- T'  .she  asked, 
ert  Audley's  pale  face. 
*     He  tarried  round  upon  her  quite  savagely  at  this  quest! 

ohim!     What  should  happen   to  him?     They  had  only 

o'clock  the  day  befi 

.  Malohy  would  have  related  to  him  the  history  of  va  poor,  dear 

ypung  : river,  who  had  once  lodged  with  her,  and  who  went  out, 

g  a  hearty  dinner,  in.  the  best  of  spirits,  to  meet  with' his  death 

from  the  concussion  of  an  express  and  a.  luggage  train  ;  but  Robert  put 

on  hi  in,  and  walked  straight  out  of  the  house  before  the  honest 

tan  could  begin  her  pitiful  story. 

it  was  growing  dusk  when  he  reached  Southampton.     He  knew  his 

to  the  poor,  little  terrace,  of  houses,  in  a  dull  street  leading  down  to 

the   water,   where   George's  father-in-law  lived.       Little   Georgey  was 

ng  at  the  open  parlor  window  as  the  young  man  walked  down  the 

,  '*■ 

haps  it  was  this  fact,  and  the  dull   and  silent  aspect  of  the  house, 
which  iiiled  Robert  Audley's  mind  with  a  vague  conviction  that  the  man 
he  came  to  look   for   was  not  there. '  The  old  man  himself  opened  the 
.  and  the  child  peeped  out  of  the  parlor  to  look  at  the  strange  gen- 
tleman. 

lie  was  a  handsome  boy,  with  his  father's  brown  eyes  and  dark 

ng  hair,  and  yet  with  some  latent  expression  which  was  not  his 

I  which  pervaded  his  whole  face,  so  that  althou  h  each  feature 

led  the  same  feature  iu  George  Talboys,  the  hoy  was' 

not  actually  like  him. 

Mr.  Maiden  was  delighted  to  see  Robert  Audley ;  he  remembered 

Qg  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  him  at  Ventnor,  on  the  melancholy 

■  ~ile  wiped  his  watery  old  eyes  by  way  of  conclusion  to 

Would  Mr.  Audley  walk  in?     Robert  strode  into  the 

parlor.     The  furniture  was  shabby  and  dingy,  and  the  place  reeked 

with  the  smell  of  stale  tobacco  and  brandy -and-water.     The  boy's  broken 


LADY  AUDLLYS  S.EGRET.  65 

playthings   and   the:  old  man's. broken  clay  pipes,  and  torn,  brandy  and- 

•r-stained  news  scattered  upon  the  dirty  carpet.     Little 

Geo:  ivd  the  visitor,  watching  him  furtively  out  of  his  big, 

■    brown  ev<  -ok  the -.boy  on  his  knee,  and  gave  him  his  watth- 

il'ay  with  while  he' talked  to  the  old  man. 

asl>   the  question  that  1  came  to  ask,"  he  said,     "I 
!  should  have  ibu:;  n-in-law  here." 

"  What  !  you  knew  that  he  was  coming  to  Southampton'?" 

ig  !"  cried  Robert,  brightening  up.     '•  I 
: '  ' 

not  here  now,  but  he  has  been  here." 

"  I.  »ht  Ismail." 

"And  left  again  ianmediateb 

"  fie  stayed  little  better  than  an  hour." 

"Good  heaveqs  !"  said  Robert,  "  what  useless  anxiety  that  man  haa 
given  me  ! .   What  can  be  the  meaning  of  all  this  ?" 

11  You  knew  nothiug  of  his  intention,  the 

41  Of  what  intention  ?" 

"I  mean  of  his  determination  to  go  to  Australia." 

'■  1  knew  that  it  was  always  in  his  mind  more  or  less,  but.  not  more 
just  now  than  usual." 

•TTe  sails  to-night  from  Liverpool.  He  came  here  at  one  o'clock  this 
morning  to  have  a  look  at  the  boy,  he  said,  before  he  left  Englahd,  per-/ 
hap-  return.     He  told  me  he  was  sick  of  the  world,  and  that 

the  rough,  life  out  .there  was  the  only  thing  to  suit  him.  He  stayed  an 
hour,  kissed  the  boy  without  awaking  him,  and  left  Southampton  by  the 
mail  that  starts  at  a  quarter-past  two." 

"What  can  be  the  meaning  of  all  this?"  said  Robert.  "  What  could 
be  his  motive  for  leaving  England  in  this  manner,  without  a  word  to  me, 
his  most  intimate  friend — without  even  a  change  of  clothes  ;  for  he  has 
left  every  tiling  at  ray  chambers?  It  is  the  most  extraordinary  proceeding !" 

The  old  man  looked  very  grave.     "  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Audley."  he 
tapping  his  forehead  significantly,  "I  sometimes  fancy  that  Helen's 
death  had  a  strange  effect  upon  poor  Georg 

"Pshaw!"  cried  Robert,  contemptuously;  "he  felt  the  blow  most 
cruelly,  but  his  brain  v  irid  as  yours  or  mine." 

"  Perhaps  he  will  write  to  you  from  Liverpool,"  said  George's  father* 
.  in-law.     He  seemed  anxious  to  smooth  over  any  indignation  that  Robert 
might  feel  at  his  friend's  conduct. 

"  I le  ought,"  said  Robert,  grave  .  e've  been  good  friends  from 

the  days  when  we  were  top  thor  b  It  isn't  kind  of  George  Tal- 

to  treat  me  like  thi 

But  even  at  the  moment  that  he  uttered  the  reproach  a  strange  thrill 
of  rem  t  through  his  I 

"It  isn't,  likohim/'  he  said,  "  it  isn't  like  alboys." 

Little  <;  aught  at  the  sound.     "That's  my  name."  he  said, 

"and  my  papa's  na  -    /entleman  s  name 


66  '  LAI>T  AUDLEY  "3  SECRET.  » 

>:  Yes,  little  i  ■  >e  last  night.  ,'a  d  you 

ill  your.sleep.     Do  you  rememlr 

>,''  said  tb«  boy,  shaking  his  curly  little  head. 

"You  must  have  been  very  last  asleep,  little  Georgey.  ppt  to  see  . 
poflr  papa." 

•  child  did- not  answer,  but  presently,  fixing  his  eyes,  upon  Robert's 
he  sai;1  abruptly — 

"  Where's  the  pretty  lady  '.'"' 

"  What  pretty  lady  V 

"The  pretty  lady  that  used  to  ecmea  long  while  ago." 
[e  means  his  poor  mamma,"  said  the  old  man, 
•    "  No,"  cried  the  boy  resolutely,  ':  not  maimna.^|JMj£ma  was  always 
crying.     I  didn't  like  mamma, "  ^J 

"  Hush,  little  Georgey  !''"'      ■  .     * 

"  But  1  didn't,  and  she  didn't  like  me.  She  was  always  crying.  I 
mean  the  pretty  lady  ;  the  lady  that  was  dressed  '60  fine,  and  that  gave 
me  my  gold  watch."  .      ' 

"He  means  the  wife  of  my  old  captain — an  excellent  creature,  who 
took  a  great  fancy  to  Georgey,  and  gave  him' some  handsome  pre- 
sents." 

"  Where's  my  gold  watch  ?  Let  me  show  the  gentleman  my  gold 
watch,"  cried  Georgey. 

"  It's  gone  to  be  cleaned,  Georgey."  answered  his  grandfather. 

"It's  always  going  to  be  cleaned,"  said  the  boy. 

"The  watch  is  perfectly  safe,  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Audley,"  murmured 
the  old  man,  apologetically  ;  and  taking  out  a  pawnbroker's  duplicate, 
he  handed  it  to  Robert. 

It  was  made  out  in  the  name  of  Captain  Mortimer:  "Watch,  set  with 
diamonds,  £11." 

"  I'm  often  hard  pressed  for  a  few  shillings.  Mr.  Audley,"  said  the  old 
man.  "My  son-in-law  has  been  very  liberal  to  me ;  but  there  are 
others,  there  are  others,  Mr.  Audley — and — and — I've  not  been  treated 
well."  He  wiped  away  some  genuine  tears  as  he  said  this  in  a  pitiful, 
crying  voice.  "  Come,  Georgey,  it's  time  the  brave  little  man  was  in 
bed.  Come  along  with  grandpapa.  Excuse  me  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  Mr.  Audley." 

The  boy  went  very  willingly.  At  the  door  of  'he  room  the  old  man 
looked  back  at  his  visitor,  and  said,  in  the  same  peevish  voice,  "This  is 
a  poor  place  for  me  to  pass  my  declining  years  in,  Mr.  Audley.  I've 
made  many  sacrifices,  and  I  make  them  still,  but  I've  not  been  treated 
well;" 

Left  alone  in  the  dusky  little  sitting-room,  Robert  Audley  folded  his 
arms,  and  sat  absently  staring  at  the  floor. 

George  was  gone,  then  :  he  might  receive  some  letter  of  explanation, 
•perhaps,  when  he  returned   to   London ;  but  the  chances   were  that  he 
would  never  see  his  old  friend  again. 

"And  to  think  that  I  should  care  so  much  for  the  fellow  !"  he  said, 
lifting  his  eyebrows  to  the  centre  of  his  forehead. 


laDt*  audlevs  secret.  G7 

.    '"The  place  smells  of vstale  .  fobac  mattered 

mi  in  my  smokii 
lie  took  one  from  the  iket :  there  w.  i.  of  fire  in 

'"out  for  something  to  light  his 
'  will  . 

la\    half  burned   upon  the  hearthrug;  he 
'  folded  it.  'o  get  a  bettor  pipe-light, by  fold- 

paper.     A  ■  he  di  I'so;  absent  y  gjaiici 
the  'pencilled    writi.i 

in  his  thoi 
■ 
declining  ^^ 

It  n  rJ|^yiispatch.     The  upper  portion  had  been 

burnt  away,  but  the  more  iinj  10  greater  part  of  the  message 

itself,  remained. 

alboys  came  to  last  night,  and  left  by  the  mail  for  London. 

on  his  way  to  Liverpool,  whence  he  was 'to  sail  for  Syduoy." 

The  date  and  the  name  and  address  of  the  sender  of  the  message  had 
been  burnt  with  the  heading.     Robert  Audley's  face  blanched 
deathly  whiteness.     He  carefully  folded  the- scrap  o  and  placed 

it  between  the  leaves  of  his  pocket-book. 

"My  God!"  he  said,  "what  is  the  meaning  of  this  I     I  shall  go  to 
Liverpool  to-night,  and  make  inquiries  there." 


CHA    | 

BLED    DREAMS. 

"Robert  Acdlev  left  Southampton  by  the  mail,  and  let  himself  into 
his,  chambers  just  as  the  dawn  was  creeping   cold  and  gray  into  the  soli- 
tary rooms,  and  the  canaries  were  beginning  to  rustic  their  feathers  feebly 
in  the.  early  morning. 
Th  leveral  letters  in   the  box  behind  the  door,  but  there  was 

TalbOys. 
The  young  barrister   was  worn  i  long  day  spent  in  hun 

from  place.     The  usual  lazy  monotony  of  his  life  had  been 

broken  as  it  had  never  been  •  qui], 

upon  the 

nt  of 

George  Talboys.     It  was  so  difficult  to   belisvu  that  it  was  lots  than 


fe'g  LADT  AU1>LEY'S  SECRET. 

forty-eight  hours  "ago -that -the  young  man  had  left  him  asleep  under  the 
willows  by  the  trout  stream. 

His  eyes  were  painfully  weary  for  want  of  sleep.  He  searched  about 
the  room  for  some  time,  looking  in  all  sorts  of  impossible,  places  fo.r  a 
letter  from  George  Talboys,  and  then  threw  himself  dressed  up6n  his 
friend's  bed,  in  the  room  with  the  canaries  and  geraniums. 

"I  shall  wait  for  to-morrow  morning's  post,"' he  said  ;  "and- if  that 
brings  no  letter  from  George,  I  shall  start  for  Liverpool  without  a  mo- 
ment's delay." 

•  He  wasthoroughly  exhausted,  and  fell  into  a  heavy  sleep — a  sleep 
which  was  profound' without  being  in  any  way  refreshing,  for  he  was  tor- 
mented all  the  time  by  disagreeable  dreams — drearns  which  were  pain- 
ful, not  from  any  horror  in  themselves,  but  from  a  vague  and  wearying 
sense  of  their  confusion  and  absurdity. 

At  one  time  he  was  pursuing  strange  people  and  entering  strange 
houses  in  the  endeavor  to  unravel  the  mystery  of  the  telegraphic  dis- 
patch,; at  another  time  he  was  in  the  churchyard  at  Venfcnor,  gazing  at 
the  headstone  George  had  ordered  for  the  grave  of  his  dead  wife.  Once 
in  the  long,  rambling  mystery  of  these  dreams  he  went  to  the  grave, 
and  found  this  headstone  gone,  and  on  remonstrating  with  the  stone- 
mason, was  told  that  the  man  had  a  reason  for  removing  the  inscription ; 
a  reason  that  Robert  would  some  day  learn. 

In  another  dream  he  saw  the  grave  of  Helen  Talboys  open,  and  while 
he  waited,  with  the  cold  horror  lifting  up  his  hair,  to  see  the'dead  woman 
arise  and  stand  before  him  with  her  stiff  charnel-house  drapery  clinging 
about  her  frigid  limbs,  his  uncle's  wife  tripped  gayly  out  of  the  open 
grave,  dressed  in  the  crimson  velvet  robes  in  which  the  artist  had  painted 
her,  and  with  her  ringlets  flashing  like  red  gold  in  the  unearthly  light 
that  shone  about  her. 

But  into  all  these  dreams  the  places  he  had  last  been  in,  and  the 
people  with  whom  he  had  last  been  concerned,  were  dimly  interwoven — 
sometimes  his  uncle;  sometimes  Alicia;  oftenest  of  all  my  lady ;  the 
trout  stream  in  Essex  ;  the  lime-walk  ^at  the  Court.  Once  he  was  walk- 
ing in  the  black  shadows  of  this  long  avenue,  with  Lady  Audley  hanging 
on  his  arm,  when  suddenly  they  heard  a  great  knocking  in  the  distance, 
and  his  uncle's  wife  wound  her  slender  arms  about  him,  crying  out  that 
it  was  the  day  of  judgment,  and  that  .all  wicked  secrets  must  now  be 
told.  Looking  at  her  as  she  shrieked  this  in  his  ear,  he  saw  that  her 
face  had  grown  ghastly  white,  and  that  her  beautiful  golden  ringlets  were 
changing  into  serpents,  and  slqwly  creeping  down  her  fair  neck. 

He  started  from  this  dream  to  find 'that  there  was  some  one  really 
knocking  at  the  outer  door  of  his  chambers. 

It  was  a  dreary,  wet  morning,  the  rain  beating  against  the  windows, 
and  the  canaries  twittering  dismally  to  each  other — complaining,  per- 
haps, of  the  bad  weather.  Rfcbert  could  not  tell  how  long  the  person 
had  been  knocking.  He  had  mixed  the  sound  with  his  dreams,  and 
when  he  woke  he  was  only  half  conscious  of  outer  things. 

"It's  that  stupid  Mrs.  Malony,  I  dare  say,"  he  muttered.     "She  may 


J.AL'V '  AL'M.EY'i  SECRET/  {;£ 

knock  again  for  all  I  car&.     Why  can't  she  use  her  duplicate  key,  instead 
of  dragging  a  man  our.  of  bed  when  he's  half  dead  with -fatigue  ':"' 
'  The   person  whoever' it  was,  did  knock  again,  and   then    dc 
apparently  tired  out;  but  about  a  minute  afterward  a  key  turned  in  the 
door. 

"She  had  her  key  with  her  all  tho  time,  then,"  said  Robert.  "I'm 
very  glad  I  didn't  get  up.'' 

The  door  between  the  sitting-room,  and  bed-room  was  half  open,  and 
he  co  le  laundress   bustling  about,  dusting  the  furniture,  and  re- 

arranging tilings  that' had  never  been  disarranged. 

"  rs  that  y  ialony  '?"  he  asked'. 

"  Yes,  sir"." 

"Then  why,  in  goodness'  name,  did  you  make  that  row  at  the  door, 
when  you  had  a  key  with  you  all  the  time?" 

"A  row  at  the  door,  sir  !" 

"Yes;  that  infernal  knocking." 

"Sure  I  never  knocked,  Misther  Audley,  but  waiked  sthraight  in  with 
my  kay "' 

"Then  who  did  knock  ?  There's  been  some  one  kicking  up  a  row  at 
that  door  t'ov  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  I  should  think  ;  you  must  have  met 
him  going  down  stairs." 

"But  I'm  rather  late  this  morning,  sir,  for  I've  been  in-Mr.  Martin's 
rooms  first,  and  I've  come  sthraight  from  the  floor  above." 

"Then  you  didn't  see  any  one  at  the  door,  or  on  the  stairs?" 

"  Not  a  mortal  soul,  sir." 

"  "Was  ever  anything  so  provoking?"  said  .Robert.  "To  think  that  I 
should  have  let  this  person  go  away  without  ascertaining  who  he  was, 
or  what  he  wanted  !  How  do  I  know  that  it  was  not  somo  one  with  a 
messago  or  a  letter  from  George  Talboys 

"Sure  if  it  was,  sir,  he'll  come  again,"  said  Mrs.  Malony,  soothingly. 

"Yes,  of  course,  if  it  was  anything  of  consequence  he'll  come  again," 
muttered  Robert.  The  fact  was,  that  from  the  moment  of  finding  the 
telegraphic  message  at  Southampton,  all  hope  of  hearing  of  George,  had 
faded  out  of  his  mind.  Ilo  felt  that  there  was  some  mystery  involved 
in  the  disappearance  of  his  friend — some  treachery  toward  himself,  or 
toward  George,  What  if  the  young  man's  greedy  old  father-in-law  had 
tried  to  separate  them  on  account  of  the  monetary  trust  lodged  in 
rt  Andley's  hands  ?  Or  what  if,  since  even  in  these  civilized  days 
all  kinds  of  Unsuspected  horrors  are  constantly  committed — what  if  the 
old  man  had  decoyed  George  down  to  Southampton,  and  made  away 
with  him  in  order  to  get  possession  of  that  £20,000,  left  in  Robert's 
custody  for  little.  Georgey'a  use? 

But.  neither  of  these  suppositions  explained  the  telegraphic  message, 
and  it  was  the  telegraphic  message,  which  had  filled  Robert's  mind  with 
a  vague  sense  of  'alarm.  The  postman  brought  no  letter  from  George 
Talboys,  and  the  person  Who  had  knocked  at  tho  door  of  the  chambers 
did   not  return  seven  and  nine  o'clock,  so  Robert  Audley  left 

Fig-tree  C  mi  it  oncv  inon  )h  of  his  friend.     This  fcime  he  told  the 


cabman  to  chirp  to  the  -".Enston  Station, at 
on  the  platform,  m 

The  Liv-erpo.  had  started  half  an  hour  before  .he  re: 

station.,  and  he  had  to  wait  an  hour  and  a  quarter  for  a  slow  train  to 
take  him  to  his  destination.  , 

Robert  Audley  chafed  cruelly  at  this  delay.  Haifa  dozen  vessels 
might  sail  i  alia  while  he  roamed  up  and  dowi 

over  trucks  and  porters.'and  swearing  at  his. ill-luck-, 
brought  the.  Times  .newspaper,  and  looked  instinctively,  at  the 
■second  column,  With  a  morbid  interest  in  the  advertisements  of-pj 
fcissin^— 'sons,   brothers,  and  husbands  who 
to  return  or  to  be  heard  of  more. 

There   was  one' advertiseir  ^  young  man  found  drowned  somo- 

.  where  on  the  Lambeth  shore. 

What  if  that  should  .have  been  George's  fateT"  No;  the  telegraphio 
message  involved  Lis  father-in-law  in  the  fact  of  his  disappearance,  and 
every  spe;    I  jout  him  must  start  from  that'one  point. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  when  Robert  got  into  Liverpool; 
tbo  late  for  any thiug  except  to  make  inquiries  as  to  what  vessel  had 
sailed  within  the  last  two  days  for  the  antipodes. 

emigrant  ship  had  sailed  at  four  o'clock  that  afternoon — the  Vic-  ' 
toriit  Regia,  bound  for  Melbourne. 

ie  result  of  his  inquiries  amounted  to  this — If  he  wanted  to  find  out 
who  had  sailed  in  the  Victoria  Regia,  he  must  wait  till  the  next.morn- 
ing,  and  apply  for  information  of  that  vessel. 

Robert  Audley  was  at  the  office  at  nine  o'clock  the-next  morning,  and 
'  was  the  first  person,  after  the  clerks  who  entered  it. 

He  met  with  every  ^civility  from  the  clerk  to  whom  he  applied.  The 
young  man  referred  to  his  books;  and  running  his  pen  down  the  list  of 
passengers  who  had  sailed  in  the  Victoria  Regia,  told  Robert  that  there 
was  iki  one  among  them  of  the  name  of  Talboys.  He  pushed  his  in- 
quiries further.  Had  any  of  the  passengers  entered  their  names  within 
a  short  time  of  the  vessel's  sailing'? 

One  of  the  other  clerks  looked  up  from  his  desk  as  Robert  asked  this 
question.  Yes,  he  said ;  he  remembered  'a  young  man's  coming  into 
the  office  at  half-;  a  ';  three  o'clock  in  tlie  afternoon,  and  paying  his  pas- 
sage money.     His  name  was  the  last  on  the  list — Thomas  Brown.    , 

Robert  Audley  shrugged  his  shoulders.  There,  could  have  been  no 
possible  reason  for  George's  taking  a  feigned  name.  He  asked  the  clerk 
who  had  Ja<  spoken  if  he  could  remember  the  appearance  of  this  Mr. 
Thomas  Brown. 

No  ;  the  office  was  crowded  at  the  time;  people  were  running  in  and 
out,  and  he  had  not  taken  any  particular  notice  of  this  last  passenger. 

Robert  thanked  them  for  their  civility,  and  wished  them  good  morn-' 
ing.  As  he  was  leaving  the  office,  one  of  the  young  men  called  after 
him  : 

"  Oh,  by-the-bye,  sir,'  he  said,  ':  I  remember  one  thing  about  this  Mr, 
Thomas  Brown — his  arm  was  in  a  sling." 


LADY  ftfl>LKY'S  SECRET.  71 

sr^'was  nothing  ninre^fec. Robert  AndJey   t^o  do  but-  to  return  to 
town.     Heve-entered  his  chambers   at   six   o'clock   that  evening, 
Oughlj'  worn  out  once  more  with  his  useless  search. 

Mrs,  Malony  brought  him  his  dinner  and  a  pint  of  wine  from  a  tavern 
in  the  Strand.  The  evening  was  raw  and  chilly,  and  the  laundress  had, 
light  I  fire  in  the  .sitting-room  grate 

After  eating  about  half  a  mutton  chop,  Robert  sat  with  his  wine  \\n- 
tastedupon  the  table  before  him,  smoking  cigars  and  staring  into  the 

"George  Talboys  uever  sailed  for  Australia,"  he  said,  after  long 
painful  reflection.     "Jf  he  is  alive,  he  is  still  in  England;  and  if  lie   is 
is  hidderi  in  some  corner  of  England." 

He  sat  for  |V  iuking-^troilbl-ed  and  gloomy  thoughts 

leaving  a  dark  shadow  upon  his  n  e,  which  neither  the  brilliant 

light  of  the  gas  nor  the  red  blase  of  the.  lire  could  dispel. 

Very  late  in  the  evening  he  rose  from  his  chair,  pushed  away  the  ta- 
ble, wheeled  his  desk  over  to  the  fireplace,  took  oyl  a  sheet  of  foolscap, 
and  flipped  a  pen  in  the  ink. 

But  after  doing  this  he  paused,  leaned  his  forehead  upon  his  hand,  and 
once  more  relapsed  into  thought. 

t;I  shall  draw  up  a  record  of  all  that  has  occurred  between  our  going 
down  to  Essex  and  to-night,  beginning^  at  the  very  beginning." 

He  drew  up  this  record  in  short,  detached  sentences,  which  he  num- 
bered as  he  wrote. 

It  ran  thus: — 

u  Journal  of  Facts  connected  with  the  Disappearance  of  George  Talboys, 
inclusive  of  Facts  which  have  no  oppairent  Relation  to  that  Cir- 
cumstance" 

In  spite  of  the  troubled  state  of  his  mind,  he  was  rather  inclined  to 
be  proud  of  the  official  appearance  of  this  heading.  He  sat  for  "some 
time  looking  at  it  with  affection,  and  with  the  feather  of  his  pen  in  his 
mouth.  '■  Opon  my  word.''  he  said.  "  I  begin  to  think  that  1  ought  to 
have  pursued  mv  profession,  instead  of  dawdling  my  life  away  as  1  have 
don-  . 

\]r  si  ioked  half  a  cigar  before  he  had  got  his  thoughts  in  proper  train, 
and  then  began  to  write': —  / 

'•1.1  write  to  Alicia,  proposing  to  take  George  down  to  the  Court. 

"2.   Alicia  writes,  objecting  to  the  visit,  on  the  part  of  Lady  Audley. 

"3.  We  go  to  Essex  in  spite  of  this  objection.  .  I  see  my  lady.  My 
lady  r(  fus 's  to  be  introduced  to  George  that  particular  evening  on  the 
score  of  fatigu 

"4.  Sir  Michael  invites  George  and  me'to  dinner  for  the  following 
evening. 

My  lady  receives  a  telegraphic  dispatch  the  next  morning  which 
summon*  fcer  to  Ixmdmv 


,2  LADY   AUDLEY '3  SKORET. 

i:  6.  Alicia  shows  mc  a  .letter  from  my  lady,  in  which 'she  requests  to 
be  told  when  I  and  my. friend  Mr.  Talboys  mean  to  leave  Essex.     To \ 
this  Tetter  is  subjoined  a  postscript,  reiterating  the  above  request. 

"  'T.  We  call  at  the  Court,  and  ask  to  see  the  house. :  My  lady's  apart- 
ments are  locked. 

"  8.-  We  get  at  the  aforesaid  apartments  by  means  of  a  secret  passage, 
the  existence  of  which  is  unknown  to  my  lady.-    >lu  bne.of the  l.Gon 
rind  her  portrait. 

;'  0.  George  is  frightened  at  the  storm.  His  conduct  is  exceedingly 
strange  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

"  10.;  George  quite  himself  again  the  following  morning.'  I  propose 
leaving  Audley  Court  immediately;  he  pr*  lining  till   the  eve-' 

ning. 

"  11.  We  go  out  fishing.-    George  leaves  me  to  go  to  the  Court. 

"■  12.  The  last  positive  information  I  can  obtain  of  him  in  Essex  is  at 
the  Court,  where  the  servant  says  he  thinks  Mr.  Talboys  fold  him  he 
would  go  and  look  for  my  lady  in  the  grounds. 

"13.  I  receive. information  about  him  at  the  station  which  may,  or 
may  not,  be  correct. 

"  14.  I  hear  of  him  positively  once  more  at  Southampton,  where,  ac- 
cording to  his  father-in-law,  he  had  been  for  an  hour  on  the  previous 
night. 

"  15.  The  telegraphic  message." 

■  When  Robert  Audley  had  completed  this  brief  record,  which  he  drew 
up.  with  great  deliberation,  and  with  frequent  pauses  for  reflection,  alter- 
ati&ns,  and  erasures,  he  sat  for  a  long   time  contemplating  the  written 

P»ge- 

At  last  he  read  it  carefully  over,  stopping  at  some  of  the  numbered 
paragraphs,  and  marking  some  of  them  with  a  pencilled  cross;  then  he 
folded  the  sheet  of  foolscap,  went  over  to  a  cabinet  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  room,  unlocked  it,  and  placed  the  paper  in  that-  very  pigeon-hole 
into  which  he  had  thrust  Alicia's  letter — the  pigeon-hole  marked  Im- 
portant. 

',  Having  done  this,  he  returned  to  his  easy  chair  by  the.  fire,  pushed 
away  his  desk,  and  lighted  a  cigar.  "  It's  as  dark  as  midnight  from  first 
to  last,"  he  said  ;  "  and  the  clue  to  the  mystery  must  be  found  either 
at  Southampton  or  in  Essex.  Be  it  how  it  may,  my  mind  is  made  up. 
I  shall  first  go  to  Audley  Court,  and  look  for  George  Talboys  in  a  nar- 
row radius." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
phoebe's  buitor. 

"  Mn.  <  .-•. — Any  person^who  had   met  tl 

since  the  7th  in  es  any  information  re"spectinj 

nt  to  that  dat<  liberally  rewarded  ou  comnlUnicatiiig   with 

.,  14  Cha  ■■*■-         *  * 

Michael  Audley  read  the  above  advertisement. in  the  seooud 
umn  of  the  Times,  as  he  sat  at  breakfast  with  my  lady'  and  Alicia  two* 
or  three  days  after  Robert's  return  to  town, . 

"Robert's  friend  has  not  yet  been  heard  of,  then,"  said   the    bar 
after  reading  the  advertisement,  to  his  wife  and  daug 

"  As  for  that,'"  replied  my  lady,  "  1  cannot  help   wondering  that   any 
one  can  be  silly  enough  to  advertise  for  him.     The  young  man  wa 
dently  of  a  restless,  roving  disposition — a  sort  of  Bamfyld  Moore  Carew 
of  modern  life,  whom  no  attraction  could  ever  keep  in  one  spot." 

Though  the  advertisement  appeared  three  successive  times,  the  party 
at  the  Court  attached  very  little  importance  to  Mr.  Talboys'  disappear- 
ance ;  and  after,  this  one  occasion  his  name  was  aever  again  mentioned 
by  either  Sir  Michael,  my  lady,  or  Ali 

Alicia  Audley  and  her  pretty  step-mother  were  by  no  means  any  bet- 
ter friends  after  that  quiet  evening  on  which  the  young  barrister  had 
dined  at  the  Court. 

"  She  is  a  vain,  frivolous,  heartless,  little  coquette,"  said  Alicia,  ad- 
dressing herself  to  her  Newfoundland  dog  Usesar,  who  was  the  sole  reci- 
pient of  th  -  confidences  ;  "she  is  a  practised  and  consum- 
mate flirt,  Qesar ;  and  not  contented  with  setting  her  yellow  ringlets 
and  her  silly  gi  half  the  men  in  Essex,  she  must  needs  make  that 
stupid  cousin  of  mine  aance  attendance  upon  her.  I  haven't  common 
patience  with  her." 

In  proof  of  which  last  assertion  Miss  Alicia  Audley  treated  her  stop- 
moth;  ible  impertinence  that  Sir  Michael  felt  him- 

self called  upon  to  rei  lonstrate  with  his  only  daughter. 

."  The  p*ior  litile  woman  is  very  sensitive,  you  know,  Alicia,"  the  bar- 
onet ;  rely,  "and  your  conduct  most  acut 

•'■  I  don't,  believe   it- a  bit,  inswered  Alicia,  stoutly.     "You 

think  her  sensitive  beoauso  she  has  soft  little  white  hands,  and  big  blue 
eyes  with  long  lashes,  at  1  all  manner  of  affected,  fantastical  ways, 
which  you  stup  tting.     Sensitive!     Why,  I1  i  her 

do  cruel  things  with  those  slender  white  fing  laugh   at.   the  pain 

she  inflicted.     I'm  very  sorry,  papa,"  she  ad  died  a  little  by  her 

father's  look  of  distress ;  "  friough  she  has  o  >me  botween  us,  and  robbed 


]  AD V  AUDLEY'S  3ECKET.  ! 

Alicia  of  the.  love  of  that  dear,  generous1  heart,  I  iuld  like 

her  fo  ike;  but  I  'can't,  1  can't,  and  nov;moi  She- 

came  up  to  bin.  ith  her  red  lips  apart,  and  her  little  white 

ning  between  the  ti  iiajid; 

'.but  if  i  had  not  had  hold  of  his  collar,  he  would  have  flown  at  bor  throat 
■and  st ran. "i  She  may  bewitch   every  ,aia.:i   in  bu1    she-'d 

never  make  friends  with  my  dog." 

"  Your  dog  shall  be  shot,"  answered  Sir  Michael  angrily".'  '  'ous 

"temper  ever  endanger*;  Lucy."' 

'•    -The   Newfoundland   rolled  his  eyes  slowly  round  in  the  direction  cf 
the  speaker,  as.  if- he  understood  every  word 

ley  happened,  to  tenter  the'room  at  that,  and  the  an 

.      :  ;.'    <>f   his   mistn  pressed  growl. 

There  was  ig   in    the   manner  of  the  dog  which  was,  if  anything, 

more   indicative   of  terror    than  of  fury;  incredible   as  it  appears  that 
•Caesar  should,  be  frightened*by  so  fragile  a  creature  as  Lucy  A.udley. 
•  Amiable  as  ...is  my  lady's  nature,  she  could  not  live  long  at  the  Court 
without  discovering  Alicia's  dislike  to  her'.     She  never  alluded  to  it  but 
once  ;  then,  shrugging  her  graceful  white  shoulders,  she  said,  with  a  sigh: 

"  It  seems  very  hard  that  you  cannot  love  me.  Alicia,  for  1  have  never 
been  used  to  make  enemies;  but  since  it  seems  that  it  must  be  so,  I 
cannot  help  it.  If  we  cannot  be  friends,  let  us  at  least  be  neutral.  You 
won't  try  to  injure  me  ?:' 

"  Injure  yoit !"  exclaimed  Alicia;  "how  should  1  injure  you  ?'•'    ■ 

"  You'll  not  try  to  deprive  me  of  your  father's  affection  T 

"  1  may  not  be  as  amiable  a's  you  are,  my  lady,  and  I  may  not  have 
the  same  sweet  smiles  and  pretty  words  for  every  stranger  I  meet,  but 
i  ftrii  not  capable  of  a  contemptible  meanness;  and  even  if  I  were,  I 
think  you  are  so  secure  of  my  father's  love,  that  nothing  but  your  own 
act  will  ever  deprive  you  of  it." 

"  What  a  severe  creature^  you  'are,  Alicia!"  said  my  lady,  making  a 
little  grimace.  "I  suppose  you  mean  to  infer  by  all  that,  that  I'm 
deceitful.  'Why,  1  can't  help  smiling  at  people,  and  speaking  prettily 
to  them.  I  know  I'm  no  better  than  the  rest  of  the  world,  but  I  can't 
help  it  if  Ympieasdnter.     It's  constitutional." 

Alicia  having  thus  entirely  shut  the  door  upon  all  intimacy  between 
Lady  Audley  and  herself,  and  Sir  Michael  being  chiefly  occupied  in 
agricultural  pursuits  and  manly  sports,  which  kept  him  away  from  home, 
it  was  perhaps  only  natural  that  my  lady,  being  of  an  eminently  social 
disposition,  should' find  herself  thrown  a  good  deal  upon  her  white-eye- 
lashed  mail!  for  society. 

Phoebe  Marks  was  exactly  the  sort  of  girl  who  is  generally  promoted^ 
■  from  the  post  of  lady's  maid  to  that  of  companion.  She  had  just  suffi- 
cient education  to  enable  her  to  understand  her  mistress  when  Lucy 
chose  to  allow  herself  to  run  riot- in  a  species  of  intellectual  tarantella, 
in  which,  her  tongue  went  mad  to  the  sound  of  its  own  rattle,  as  the 
Spanish  dancer  at  the  noise  of  his  castanets.  Phoebe  knew  enough  of 
the  French  language  to  be  able  to  dip  into  the  yellow-paper-ow 


t  AUDJL,  ETV 

BoVete  which  my  1.  he,  Burlington 

course  with  her 

The  likeness  which  1   bore  to  Lu< ;  ,  per! 

a  point of  sympathy  '  women. '   It  \\ 

a  striking  like'  i       ight  have  s 

yefi;haVe  failed  to  remark.it.     But  there  w<  dowy*. 

h.  meeting  Phoel  ks  gliding 

the  Com 
you  might  have  ea  y  lady. 

Sharp  October  wind?  \  is  from  th 

long  ■  withered  heaps  with  a  ghostly  rui 

along  the  I   well   must   I  i  half 

choked  up  with  '"        about  it,  and  whirled  in  vu 

into  its  black,  lotitb.     On  the  still  bosom  of  th 

pond  the  same  withe  .  mixing  themselves 

with  the  tangled  weeds-   that  dis(.v  of  the  w; 

Sir  Michael  could   employ  could  not  keep  the  ii 
autumn's  destroying  hand  from  the  grounds* about  the  Court. 

"How  I  hate  thtis  desolate  month  !"  my  lady  sa  ibout 

the  garden  shivering  beneath  her  sable  mantle.  thing  dropping 

to  ruin  and  decay,  and  tho  coid  flicker  of  the  sun  lighting  up  the  ug 
of  the  earth,  as  the  glare  of  lights  the  wrinkles  of  an  old  wo- 

man. Shall  J  ^ver  grow  old,  Phoebe/  Will  my  hair  ever  drop  off  as 
the  leaves  are  falling  from  those  trees,  and  leave  me  wan  and  bare  like 
them1?     What  is  to  become  of  me  when  I  grow  old?" 

She  shivered  at  the  thought  of  this  more  than  she  had  done  at  the 
cold,  wintry  breeze,  and  muffling  herself  closely  in  her  fur,  walked  so 
fast  that  her  maid  had  some  difficulty  in  keeping  up  with  her.  ■ 

11  Do  you  remember,  Phoebe,"  she  said,  presently,  relaxing  her  | 
"do  you  remember  that  French  story  we  read — the  story  of  a  beautiful 
woman  who  committed  some  hat — in  the  zenith  of  her 

power  and  loveliness,  when  all  Paris  drank  to  her  ev< 
the  people  ran  away  from   the  the   king  '<  hers, 

and  get  a  peep  at  hei  Do  you  remember 

of  what  she  had  done,  for  nearly  half  &  century,  spending  her  old  a 
her  family  chateau,  beloved   and   honored  by  all  the  province  as  an  un- 
canonized  to  the  poor;  and  how,  when  her  hair 

white;  and  almost  blind  with  age,  the  secret  was  revealed 

through  one  ofthosn  nta  by  which  such  secret9  always 

revealed  ;i,  rotnances,  and  she  was  tried,  found   guilty,  and  conden 
to  be  bun  Tho   king   who  had  worn  her  <■ 

gone;  the  court  of  which  she  had  been  the  star  had  i 
ful  functionaries  an  .  who  might  perhaps  ha 

her,  were  mouldering  in  their  ho  would 

for  lier.  had  falb  i    upon 

■  to  which  she  had  I  wenjfc 

to  th<  Mowed  only  by  a  few  ignorant  oountr   - 

all  her  bounties,  and  hootod  at  .her  for  a  wicked^or^T'^." 


76  .  LADY   .UiDLEY'd  SlvilET. 

u  I  don't  care  for  such  dismal  stories,  my" lady,"  said  Phoebe  Marks 
with  a  shudder.  "One  has  no  need  to  read 'books  to  give  one  t*he 
horrors  in  this  dull  place."  ,  V..< 

Lady  Audloy  shrugged  her- shoulders  and  laughed  at  her  maid's, 
candor. 

"  It  is  a  dull  place,  Phoebe,"  she  said,  '.'  though  it  doesn'tdo  to  say  so 
to- my  dear  old  husband.  Though  ? am  the  wife  of  one  of  the  mpst  in- 
fluential mien  in  the  county,  I  don't  know  that  Iwasn't  nearly  as  well 
oil' at  Mr.  Dawson's;  and  yet  it's  something  to  wear  sables  that  cost 
;•  sixty  guineas,  and  have  a  thousand  pounds  spent  on  the  decoration  of 
one's  apartments." 

Treated  as  a  companion  by  her  mistress,  in  the  receipt  of  the  most 
liberal  wages,  and  with  pecquisites  such  as  perhaps  lady's  maid  never 
had  before,  it  was  strange,  that  Phoebe  Marks  should  wish  to  leave  her 
'situation  ;  but  it  was  not  the  less  a-  fact  that  she  was  anxious  to  exchange 
all  the  advantages  of  Audley 'Court  for  the  very  unpromising  prospect 
which  awaited  her  as  the  wife  o'f  her  cousin  Luke. 

The  young  man  had  contrived,  in  some  manner  to  associate  himself 
with  the  improved  fortunes  of  his  sweetheart.  He  had  never  allowed 
Phoebe  any  peace  till  she  had  obtained  for  him,  by  the  aid  of  my  lady's 
interference,  a  situation  as  undergrooin  of  the  Court. 

He  never  rode  out  with  either  Alicia  or  Sir  Michael ;  but  on  one  of 
the  few  occasions  upon  which  my  lady  mounted  the  pretty  little  gray 
thoroughbred  reserved  for  her  use,  he  contrived  to  attend  her  in  her 
ride.'  He  saw  enough,  in  the  very  first  halfhonr  they  were  out,  to  dis- 
cover that,  graceful  as  Lucy  Audley  might  look  in  her  long  blue  cloth 
habit,  she  was -a  timid  horsewoman,  and  utterly  unable  to  manage  the 
animal  she  rode. 

Lady  Audley  remonstrated  with  her  maid  upon  her  jolly  in  wishing 
to  marry  the  uncouth  groom. 

The  two  women  were  seated  together  over  the  fire  in  my  lady's 
dressing  room,  the  gray  sky  closing  in  upon  the  October  afternoon,  and 
the  Mack  tracer     of  ivy  darkening  the  casement  windows. 

"You  surely-  are  not  in  love  with  the  awkward,  ugly  creature,  are 
you,  Phoebe  ?    asked  my  lady  sharply. 

The  girl  was  sitting  on  a  low1  stool  at  her  mistress's'  feet.  She  did 
not  answer  my  lady's  question  immediately,  but  sat  for  some  time  look- 
ing vacantly  into  the  red  abyss  in  the  hollow  fire. 

■   Presently  she  said,  rather  as  if  she  had  been  thinking  aloud  than  an- 
swering Lucy's  question — ■ 

"I  don't  think  I  can. love  him.  We  have  been  together  from  chil- 
dren, and  I  promised,  when  I  was  little  better  than  fifteen,  that  I'd  be 
his  wife.  I  daren't  break  that  promise  now.  There  have  been  times 
when  I've  made  up  the  very  sentence  I  meant  to  say  to  him,  telling  him 
that  I  couldn't  keep  my  faith  with  him  ;  but  the  words  have  died  upon 
my  lips,  and  I've  sat  looking  at  him,  with  a  choking  sensation  in  my 
throat  that  wouldn't  let  me  speak.  I  daren't  refuse  to  marry  him.  I've 
often  watched  and  watched  him,  as  he  has  sat  slicing  away  at'  a  hedge- 


LADY -AUDLEY'ts  SECB  7, 

st&ke  with  his  great  clasp-knife,  ti!l  I  have  thought  thai 

as  lio  who  haye  decoyed  their  sweethearts  into  lonely  places,  and, 
miirdc/ed  them  for  being  false  to  their  word."  When  he  was,-,  boy  lie 
was  always  violent  and  revengeful.     1  .-aw  him  •  up  that 

knife  in  a  quarrel  with  his  mother.     I  tell  von.  my  lady,  I  must  i 
him1." 

ou  silJy  girl,  you 'shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind  !"  answered   Luey. 
"  You  think  he'll  murder  you.  do  yon  !      1*"  you  think,  then;  if  n. 
is  iu  him,  you  would  be  any-safer  as  his  wife?     If  you  thwarted  him,  of 
him.  jealous  ;  if  he  wanted  to  marry  another  woman,  or  to  get  hold 
of  some  poor,  pitiful  bit  of  money   of  you 
then?     I  tell  you/you  sha  ry  him,  Phcebe.     In   the  first 

hate  the  man  ;  and,  in  the  next  place,    I   can't,  afford   tq   part  with,  you. 
We'll  give  him  a  few  pounds  and  send  him  about  his  busines 

Phoebe  Marks  caught  mj  lady's  bands  in.  hers,  and  hem  con- 

vulsively. 

"  My  lady — my  good.  kind  mistress  !"  she  cried  vehemently,  "don't 
try  to  thwart  me  in  this — don't  ask  me  to  thwart  him.  I  tell  you  I 
must  marry  him.  You  don't  know  what  ho  is-.  It  will  lie  my  ruin,  and 
the  ruin  of  others,  if  I  break  my  word.     I  must  marry  him  !" 

"  Very  well,  then,  Phcebe,"  answered  her  mistress.  "  I  ran'j;  oppose 
you.     There  must  be  some  secret  at  the  bottom  of  all  this." 

"  There'is,  my  lady,"  said  the  girl,  with  her  face  turned'  away  from 
Lucy. 

"  I  shall  be  very  sorry  to  loso  you  ;  but  I  haw  !  to  stand  your 

fiend  in  all  things.     What  docs  your  cousin  mean   to^do  for  a  living 
when  you  are  married  V 

''He  would  like  to  take  a  public  house." 

"  Then  he  shall  take  a  public  house,  and  the  sooner  he  drinks  himself 
ith  the  better.     Sir  Michael  dines  at  a  bachelor's  party  at  Major 
rave's  this  evening,  and  my  step-daughter  is  away  with  her  fi 
at  the  Grange.     You  can  bring  yonr  cousin  into  the  drawing-room  after 
dinner,  and  I'll  tell  him  what  I  mean  to  do  for  him." 

"  You  are  very  good,  my  lady,"  Phcebe  answered  with  a  sigh. 

Lady  Audley  sat  in  the  glow  of  tire  light  and  wax  candles  in  the  lux- 
urious drawing-room  ;  the  amber  damask  cushions  of  the  sofa  con' 
ing  with  her  dark  violet  velvet  dress,  and  her  rippling  hair  falling  about* 
her  neck  in  a  golden  haze.  Every  where  around  her  were  the  evidences- 
of  wealth  and  splendor  ;  while  in  strange  contrast  to  all  this,  and  to  her 
own  beauty,  the  awkward  groom  stood  rubbing  his  bullet  head  as  my 
lady  explained  to  him  what  she  meant  to  do  for  her  confidential  maid. 
Lucy's  promises  were  very  liberal,  and  she  had  expected  that,  nn 
as  the  man  was,  he  would  in  his  own  rough  manner  have  expressed  his 
gratitude. 

To  her  surprise  he  stood  staring  at  the  floor  without  uttering  a  word 
in  answer  to  her  offer.  Phcebe  was  standing  close  to  his  elbow,  and 
seemed  distressed  at  the  man's  rudeness. 

"Tell  my  lady  how  thankful  you  are,  Luke,"  she  said. 


78      '  ^ADY  AUDLEY'S  SECii'ET. 

"  But  I'm  not  so  ov.er  and  above  thankful",  answered  her  lover  say'; 
. .     "  Fifty  pound  ain't  much  to  start  a,  public.    You'll   make  it  a 
hundred,  my  lady '?" 

'■1  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind/'  said  Lady  Audleyy  her.  dear:  blue 
eyes  dashing  with  indignation,  "and  1  wonder  at  your  impertinence-  in 
asking  it."  . 

"Oh  yc's,  you  will,  though,"  answered  Li  juiet  insolence  that 

'had  a  hidden  meaning'.     "  Ypu'll  make  it  a  my  lady." 

Lady  Audley  rose  from  her  seat,  looked  the  man  'steadfastly  in  the 
Face  til  bermined  gaze' sank  under  heKs  ;  then  walking  straight  up 

•  maid,  she  said  in  a  high,  piercing    voice,    peculiar    (o    her   in   lim- 
itation, "  Phoebe  Marks,  youhujgtokl  (his  man!" 
The  girl  fell. on  her  knees  at  my  ladyj^f 

;:  ,•  .,  .      :  cried.      "  He  fo 

or  I  would  never,  never  have  told  !" 


CHAPTER  XV. 

ON    THE    WATG1I. 


•  Upon  a  lowering  morning  late  in  November,  with  the  yellow  fog  low 
upon  the  flat  meadows,  and  the  blinded  cattle  groping  their  way  through 
the  dim  obscurity,  and  blundering  stupidly  against  black  and  leafless 
hedges,  or  stumbling  into'ditches,  und'istinguishable  in  the  hazy  atmos- 
phere; with  the  village  church  looming  brown  and  dingy  through  the 
uncertain  light;  with  every  winding  path  and  cottage  door,  every  gable 
end  and  gray  old  chimney,  every  village  child  and  straggling  cur,  seem- 
ing strange  and  weird  of  aspect  in  the  semi-darkness,  Phoebe  Marks  and 
her  cousin  Luke  made  their  way  through  the  churchyard  of  Audley,  and 
presented  themselves  before  a  shivering  curate,  whose  surplice  hung,  in 
damp  folds,  soddened  by  the  morning  mist,  and  whose  temper  was  not 
improved  by  his  having  waited  five  minutes  for  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom.        ♦ 

Luke  Marks,  dressed  in  his  ill-fitting  Sunday  clothes  looked  by  no 
means  handsomer  than  in  his  every-dav  apparel  >  hut  Phoebe,  arrayed 
in  a  rustling  silk  of  delicate  gray,  thai  lit'd'been  worn  about  half  a  dozen 
times  by  her  mistress*  looked,  as  the  few  spectators  of  the  ceremony' re- 
marked, "quite  the  lady." 

A  very  dim  and  shadowy  lady;  vague  of  outline,  and  faint  of  color- 
ing ;  with  eyes,  hair,  complexion,  and  dress  all  melting  into  such  pale 
and  uncertain  shades  that,  in  the  obscure  light  of  the  foggy  November 
morning,  a  superstitious  stranger  might  have  mistaken  tho  bride  for 


lady  aui  »L.r;  79 

the  gdiosfc  of  some,  other  linden,  '  w.thc 

oh  u  rob. 

Mr.  ,  the  herpof  tlxj  occasion,  though  fall 

iblic  house.     My  ladj  liad  |  .  -live 

>r  l ho  purchase  of  tl  th  the 

stock  nd   spirl  ■  iall  inn 'in  the 

village}  perched  on  thy  summit  of  a  hill, 'and  call 

kit  a  very  pretty  house,  to  look  at ;  it  had  something  of  a  tun 
down,  weather-beaten  appear;:  did  upon  hi: 

ired'only  by  four  or  five  rgrown  poplars,  tha 

up  too  rapidly  for  tl  hted,  forlorn  look  ii 

*  sequence.     The  wind  had  ha<M£s  own  way  with  the  Castle  Inn.  and  had 
sometimes  made  cruel  use  of  .     It.  was  the  wind  tha 

and  bent  the  low,  thatched  roofs  of  outhouses  ai 
over  and  lurched  forward,  as  a  slouched   hat  hangs   over  the 
he&d  of  some  village  ruffian;  it  was  the  wind  ti.  and  rattled  the 

wooden  shutters  before  the  narrow  casements,  till  they  hung  broke: 
dilapidated  upon  their  rusty  hinges  ;  it  was  the  wind  that  overthrew 
the  pigeon  house,  and  broke  the  vane  that  had  been  impudently  set  up 
to  tell  the  movements  of  its  mightiness;  it  was  the  wind  that  made 
light  of  an}-  littliFbit  of  wooden  trellis- work,  or  creeping  plant,  or  tiny 
balcony,  or  any  modest  decoration  whatsoever,  and  tore  aud  scattered 
it  in  its  scornful  fury  ;  it  was  the  wind  that  left  mossy  secretions  on  the 
discolored  surface  of  the  plaster  Walls ;  it  was  the  wind,  in  short,  thai 
shattered,  and  ruined,  and  rent,  and  trampled  upon  the  tottering  pile  of 
buildings,  and  then  flew  shrieking  off,  to  riot  and  glory  in  its  destroying 
strength.  The  dispirited  proprietor  grew  tired  of  his  long  struggle  with 
this  mighty  enemy  ;  so  the  wind  was  left  to  work  its  own  will,  and  the 
Castle  Inn  fell  slowly  to  decay.  But  for  all  that  it  suffered  without,  it 
was  not  the  less  prosperous  within  doors.  Sturdy  drovers  stopped  to. 
drink  at  the  little  bar;  well-to-do  farmers  spent  their  evenings  and 
talked  politics  in  the  low,  wainscoted  parlor,  while  their  horses  munch- 
ed some  suspicious  mixture  of  mouldy  hay  and  tolerable  beans  in  the' 
tumbledown  stables.  Sometimes  even  the  members  of  the  Audley 
hunt  stopped  to  drink  and  bait  their  horses  at  the  Castle  Inn;  while, 
on  one  grand  and  never-to-be-forgotten  occasion,  a  dinner  had  been  or- 
by  the  master  of  the  hounds  for  some  thirty  gentlemen,  and  the 
proprietor  driven  nearly  mad  by  the  importance  of  the  demand. 

So  Luke  Marks,  who  was  by  no  means  troubled  with  an  eye.  for  the 
beautiful,  thought  himself  very  fortunate  in  becoming  landlord  of  the" 
( 'astle  Inn,  Mount  Stanning. 

A  chaise-cart  was  waiting  in  the  fop  to  convey  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom to  their  new  home  ;  and  a  few  of  the  simple  villagers,  who  had. 
known  Phcebe  from  a  child,  were  lingering  round  the  churchyard  gale  to 
bid  her  good-by.  Tier  pale  eyes  were  still  paler  from  the  tears  she  had 
and  the  red  rims  which  surrounded  them.  The  bridegroom  was 
annoyed  ai  this  exhibition  of  emotion. 


80 

"  Wh  ■  i   blubbering  for,-  lass?"  he  said,   I  :  If  you 

twunt  to  rnarry  m  -aid  have  told  me  so.     1  a;  n't  going  to. 

murder  you,  am 

The  lady's  maid  as  he  spoke  toher,  and  dragged  her  I 

silk  mai  ly  around  her. 

"  You'r,e  cold  in  all  this  here  finery,"'  said  Luke,  staring  at  her  costly 
dress   with   no    expression    <:f  good-will.     "  Why  can't-  women 

rding  to  their  .-  You   won't  have  ho.. silk'  gownds  out. of  my 

. 
lie   lifted   the  shivering  girl  into  the  chaise,  wrapped  a- rough^great- 
it  her,  and  drove  off  through  the  yellow  fog,  followed  by  a  fee- 
fromutwo  or  three  urchins  clusti  the  gate; 

A  new  maid  was  brought  from  London  to  'hcebe  Marks-abqut 

ih%  person  of  my  lady — a  very  showy  damsel,  who  wore   a  black  satin 
i,  and  rose-colored  ribbons  in  her  cap,  and   complained  bitterly  of 
'  the  dulness  of  Audley  Court* 

But  Christmas  brought  visitors  to  the  rambling  old  mansion.  A  coun- 
try squire  and  his  fat  wife  occupied  the  tapestried  chamber ;  merry  girls' 
scampered  up  arid  down  the  long  passages,  and  young  men  stared  out  of 
"the  latticed  windows,  watching  for  southerly  winds  and  cloudy  skies ; 
there  was  not  an  empty  stall  in  the  roomy  old  stables.;  an  extempore 
forge  had  been  set  up  in  the  yard  for  the  shoeing  of  hunters  ;  yelping 
dogs  made  the  place  noisy  with  their  perpetual  clamor  ;  strange  servants 
herded  together'  on  the'  garret  story  ;  and  every  little  casement  hidden 
away  under  some  pointed  gable,  and  every  dormer  window  in  the  quaint 
old  roof,  glimmered  upon  the  winter's  night  with  its  separate  taper,  till, 
coming  suddenly  upon  Audley  Court,  the  benighted  stranger,  misled  by 
the  light,  and  noise,  and  bustle  of  the  place,  might  have  easily  fallen  into 
young  Marlowe's  error,  and  have  mistaken  the  hospitable  mansion  for  a 
I,  old-fashioned  inn,  such  as  have  faded  from  this  earth  since  the  last 
mail  coach  and  ..prancing  tits  took  their  last  melancholy  journey  to  the 
knacker's  yard. 

Among  other  visitors  Mr.  Robert  Audley  came  down  to  Essex  for 
the  hunting  season,  with  half  a  dozen  French  novels,  a  case  of  cigars, 
and  three  pounds  of  Turkish  tobacco  in  his  portmanteau. 

The  honest,  young  country  squires,  who  talked  all  breakfast  time  of 
Flying  Dutchman  fillies  and  Voltigeur  colts  ;  of  glorious  runs  of  seven 
hours'  hard  riding  over  three  cousties,  and  a  midnight  homeward  ride, 
of  thirty  miles  upon  their  covert  hacks;  and  who  ran  away  from  the 
weU-spread  table  with  their  mouths  full  of  cold  sfrloin  to  look  at  tha$ 
off  pastern,  or  that  sprained  forearm,  or  the  colt  that  had  just  come  back 
from  the  veterinary  surgeon's,  set  down  Mr.  Robert  Audley,  dawdling 
A  over  a  slice  of  bread  and  marmalade,  as  a  person  utterly  unworthy  of 
any  remark  whatsoever. 

The  young  barrister  had  brought  a  couple  of  dogs  with  him;  and  the 
country  gentleman  who  gave  fifty  pounds  for  a  pointer,  and  travelled  a 
couple  of  hundred  miles  to  look  at  a  leash  of  setters  before  he  struck  a 
bargain,  laughed  aloud  at  the   two  miserable  curs,,  one  of  which  had 


LADY-  AtfDLEY'S  SECUET.  Si 

ved  Robert   Ami  ley  through   Chancery  Lane  and  half  the  length  of 

Holborn ;  while  his  companion   had   been  taken   by  the  barrister  rti  et 

inger  who   was  ill-using  him.     And  as  Robert 

srftkOre  insisted  on  two  deplorable  animals  under  his 

wing-room,  much  to  the  annoyance  of  my  lady,  who, 

know,  Irate  I   all  dogs,-  the  visitors  at  Audley  Court  looked  upon 

ironet's  i  '  maniac. 

r   visits  to  the.  Court  Robert  Audley  had  made  a  feeble 
show  of  joining   in  the  sports  of  the  merry  assembly's     He  had  jogged 

i  on  a  'juietgray  pony  of  Sir  Michael's, 
and  drawing  up  breathh  anting  at  the  dot  r  of  some  farm-ho 

had   exnre  intention  of  following  the  hounds  no  further 

morning.  n  gone  so  far  as  to  put  on,  with  great  labor,  a 

of  skates,  with  a  view  to  taking  a  turn  on  the.  frozen'  surface  of  the 
fishpond,  and  hod  fallen  ignominiously  nt  the  (in  ■:,  lying  placidly 

ided  on  the  flat  of  his  back  until  such  time  as  the  bystanders  should 
think  fit  to  pic!;  him  up.  He  had  occupied  the  ba< ■!;  seat  in  a  dog-cart 
during  a  pleasant  morning  drive,  vehemently  prote  g  against  being 
taken  up  hill,  and  "requiring  the  Vehicle  to  be  stopped  every  ten  minutes 
ier  to  readjust  the  cushions.  But  this  year  he  showed  no  inclina- 
tion for  any  of  these  outdoor  amusements,  and  he  spent  his  time  entirely 
in  lounging  in  the  drawing-room,  and  making  himself  agreeable,  after 
his  own  lazy  fashion,  to  my  lady  and  Aire! 

Lady  Audley  received  her  nephew's  attentions  in  that  graceful,  half- 
childish  fitehion  which  her  admirers  found  so  charming;  but  Alicia  was 
indignant /it  the  change  in  her  cousin's  conduct. 

"You  were  always  a  poor,  spiritless  fellow,  Bob,"  said  the  young 
lady  contemptuously,  as  she  bounced  into  the  drawing-room  in  her  riding- 
habit,  after  a  hunting  breakfast,  from  which  Robert  had  absented  him- 
self, preferring  a  cup  of  tea  in  my  lady's  boudoir ;  "  but  this  year  i  don't 
know  what  has  come  to  you.  You  are  good  for  nothing  but  to  hold  a 
skejn  of  silk  or* read  Tennyson  to  Lady  Aualey." 

"  My  dear,  hasty,  impetuous  Alicia,  don't  bo  violent,"  said  the  young 
man,   imploringly.     "A    conclusion   isn't  a   live-ban  and   you 

i't  give  your  judgment  its  ;  our  mare  Ataianta 

hers,  when   you're  flying  across  country  at  th<  in  unfortunate 

fox.     Lady  Audley  interest     mo.  and  my  uncle's  county  : 
iat  a  sufficient  answer,  Alicia1?"    • 
Mis;  Dudley  gave  her  head  a  little  scornful  toss. 
"  It's,  as  good  an  answer  as  I  shall  ever  get  from  you,  Bob,"  she  said, 
impatiently;  "but   pray   amuse   yourself  in  your  own  way;   loll  in  an 

■  hair  all   day,  with  those  two  absurd  dogs  asleep  on  your  kn< 
spoil  my  lady's  window-curtains  with  y<  noy  every 

i8e  with  your  stupid,  manimal  -  i  >unt< 
srt  Audi.  >  their  w 

extent  at  tl  I  looked  helplci  I  Miss    Uicia. 

The  j       liking  up  and  shing  the  skirt 

of  he  Mi  her  riding  whip.     Her  eyes  sparkled   with 


g2  I'ADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET. 

flash,  and  a  crimson  gl.nv  burned  under  her  clear  brown  skin.  The 
young  barrister  knew  very  well,  by  these  diagnostics,  that  his  cousin 
was  in  a  passion. 

'•Yes,''  she  repeated,  "your  stupid,  inanimate  countenance.  Do  you 
know,  Robert  Audley,  that  with  all  your  mock  amiability,  you  are 
brimful  of  conceit  and  superciliousness.  You  look  down  upon  our 
amusements;  you  lift  up  your  eyebrows,  and  shrug  your  ehonlders,  and 
throw  yourself  back  in  your  chair,  and  wash  your  hands  of  us  and  our 
pleasures.     You  are.  a  selfish,  cold-hearted  Sybarite ." 

"  Alicia !     Good — gracious — me  !" 

The  morning  paper  dropped  out  of  his  hands,  and  he  sat  feebly  staring 
at  his  assailant. 

"Yes,  selfish,  Robert  Audley!  You  take  home  half-starved  dogs, 
because  you  like  half-starved  dogs.  You  stoop  down,  and  pat  the  head 
of  every'good-for-nothing  cur  in  the  village  street,  because  you  like 
good-for-nothing  curs.  You  notice  little  children,  and  give  them  half- 
pence, because  it  amuses  you  to  do  so.  But  you  lift  your  eyebrows  a 
quarter  of  a  yard  when  poor  Sir  Harry  Towers  tells  a  stupid  story,  and 
stare  the  poor  fellow  out  of  countenance  with  your  lazy  insolence.  As 
to  your  amiability,  you  would  let  a  man  hit  you,  and  say  'Thank  you' 
for  the  blow,  rather  than  take  the  trouble  to  hit  him  again;  but  you 
wouldn't  go  half  a  mile  out  of  your  way  to  serve  your  dearest  friend. 
Sir  Harry  is  worth  twenty  of  you,  though  he  did  write  to  ask  if  my 
m-a-i-r  Atalanta  had  recovered  from  the  sprain.  He  can't  spell,  or  lift 
his  eyebrows  to  the  roots  of  his  hair;  but  he  would  go  through  fire  aud 
'  water  for  the  .girl  he  loves  ;  while  you " 

At  this  very  point,  when  Robert  was  most  prepared  to  encounter  his 
cousin's  violence,  and  when  Miss  Alicia  seemed  about  to  make  her  strong- 
est attack,  the  young  lady  broke  down  altogether,  and  burst  into  tears. 

Robert  sprang  from  his  easy-chair,  upsetting  his  dogs  on  the  carpet. 

"Alicia,  my  darling,  what  is  it?"  v 

"It's — it's — it's  the  feather  of  my  hat  that  got  into  my  eyes,"  sobbed 
his  cousin ;  and  before  he  could  investigate  the  truth  of  this  assertion 
Alicia  had  darted  out  of  the" room. 

Robert  Audley  was  preparing  to  follow  her,  when  he  heard  her  voice 
in  the  court  yard  below,  amidst  the  trampling  of  horses  and  the  clamor 
of  visitors,  dogs,  and  grooms.  Sir  Harry  Towers,  the  most  aristocratic 
young  sportsman  in  the  neighborhood,  had  just  taken  her  little  foot  in 
his  hand  as  she  sprang  into  her  saddle. 

"  Good  heavens  !"  exclaimed  Robert,  as  he  watched  the  merry  party 
of  equestrians  until  they  disappeared  under  the  archway.  "  What  does 
all  this  mean  ?  How  charmingly  she  sits  her  horse  !  What  a  pretty 
figure,  too,  and  a  fine,  candid,  brown,  rosy  face  ;  but  to  fly  at  a  fellow 
like  that,  without  the  least  provocation !  That's  the  consequence  of 
letting  a  girl  follow  the  hounds.  She  learns  to  look  at  everything  in 
life  as  she  does  at  six  feet  of  timber  or  a  sunk  fence;  she  goes  through 
the  world  as  she  goes  across  country — straight  ahead,  and  over  every 
thin.fr.     Such  a  nice  girl  as  she  might  have  been,  too,  if  she'd  been 


LAI>Y  AUDLKYtt  SECRET.  83 

brought  up  in  Fig-treq  Court!  If  ever  I  marry,  and  have  daughters 
(which  remote  contingency  may  Heaven  forefond!),  they  shall  be  edu- 
cated  in  Paper  Buildiugs,  take  their  sole  exercise  in  the  Temple  Gar- 
dens, and  they  shall  never  go  beyond  the  pates  till  they  are  rnarriageble, 
when  I  .'will  take  them  straight  across  1  t   to  St.   Dunstan's 

church,,  and  deliver  them  into  the  han  (r  husbands. " 

With  su  .'.'■'   bert  Audjey  beguile  the  time 

until  my  lad     re-entered  the  drawing-room,  fresh  and  radiant' in  her 
islume,  her  yellow  curls  glistening  with  the  perfumed 
irs  in  \vhi<         •  and   her  velvet-covered  8ketbh-book  in 

he;-  arms.     She  planted  a  little  easel  upon  a  table  by  the  window, seat- 
self  before  it,  and  began   to  mix   the  colors  upon  her  pallette, 
Robert  watching  her  out  of  his  half-closed  eyes. 

"  You  are  sure  my  cigar  does  not  annoy  you,  Lady  Audle\ 

"  Oh,  no  indeed  ;'  1  am  quite  used  to  the  sm<  II  of  tobacco.     jNfr.  Daw- 
son, the  surgeon,  smoked  all  the  evening  when  I  lived  in  his  house.'' 
"Dew  ood  fellow,  isn't  he  irelessly. 

lady  burst  into  her  pretty,  gushing  laugh. 

he  dearest  of  good  Creatures,"  she  said.  He  paid  me  five-and- 
twenty  pounds  a  year — only  fancy  livc-aud-twenty  pounds  !  That  made 
six  pounds  live  a  quarter.  How  well  1  remember  receiving  the  money 
—  six  dingy,  old  sovereigns,  and  a  little  heap  of  untidy,  dirty  silver,  that 
came  straight  from  the  till  in  the  surgery  !  And  then  how  glad  I  was 
to  get  it !  While%ott' — 1  can't  help  laughing  while  I  think  of  it — these 
colors  1  am  using  cost  a  guinea  each  at  Winsor  and  Newton's — the  car- 
mine and  ultramarine  thirty  -hillings.  I  gave  J\lrs.  Dawson  one  of  my 
silk  dresses  the  other  day,  and  the  poor  thing  kissed  me,  and  the  surgeon 
carried  the  bundle  home  under  his  cloak." 

My  lady  laughed  long  and  joyously  at  the  thought.  Her  colors  were 
•mixed;  she  was  copying  a  waten-colored  sketch  of  an  impossibly  beauti- 
ful Italian  .peasant  in  an  impossibly  Tumeresque  atmosphere.  The 
sketch  was  nearly  finished,  and  she  had  only  to  put  in  some  critical  little 
touches  with  the  most  delicate  of  her  sable  pencils.  She  prepared  her 
self  daintily  I  rk,  looking  sideways  at  the  painting. 

All  this  time  Mr.  Robert  Audley's  eyes  were  fixed  intently  on  her 
pretty  fai 

"I  it  i  i  '  ange,"  he  said,  after  so  long  a. pause  that  my  lady  might 
have  forgotten  what  she  had  been  talking  of;  "  it  is  a  change !  Some 
women  would  do  a  great  deal  to  accomplish  such  a  change  as  that.'' 

Lucy  Audley's  clear  blue  eyes  dilated  as  she  fixed  them  suddenly  on 
the  young  barrister.     The  winter  sunlight,  gleaming  full  upon  her  face 
a  side  window,  lit.   up  the  azure  of  those   beautiful  eyes,  till  their 
color  seemed  to  flicker  and  tremble  betwixt  blin    wd  green,  as  the  opal 
tints  oft  nge  upon  a  summer's  d.r  rnall  brush  fell  from 

her  hand,  and  blotted  out  I  'it's  face  under  a  widening  circle  of 

crimson  lake. 

vas   tenderly  coaxing  the  crumbled  leaf  ofthii  e'ejar 
witii 


84  LADY  AUDLEY 'S  SECRET. 

"  My  friend  at  the  corner  of  Chancery  Lane  has  not  given  me  such 
good  Manillas  as  usual,"  he  murmured.  "  If  ever  you  smoke,  my  dear 
aunt  (and  I  am  told  that  many  women  take  a  quiet  weed  under  the  rose), 
b6  very  careful  how  you  chooso  your  cigars." 

My  lady  drew  a  long  breath,  picked  up  her  brush,  and  laughed  aloud 
at  Robert's  advice. 

"What  an  eccentric  creature  you  are,  Mr.  Audley  !  Do  you  know 
that  you  sometimes  puzzle  me " 

"  Not  more  than  you  puzzle  me,  my  dear  aunt." 

My  lady  put  away  her  colors  and  sketck  book,  and  seating,  herself  in 
the  deep  recess  of  another  window,  at  a  considerable  distauco  from  Ro- 
bert Audley,  settled  herself  to  a  large  piece  of  Berlin-wool  work — ;i 
piece  of  embroidery  which  the  Penelopes  of  ten  or.  twelve  years  ago 
were  very  fond  of  exercising  their  ingenuity  upon — the  Olden  Time  at 
Bolton  Abbey. 

Seated  in  the  embrasure  of  this  window,  my  lady  was  separated  from 
Robert  Audley  by  the  whole  length  of  the  room,  and  the  young  man 
could  only  catch  an  occasional  glimpse  of  her  fair  face,  surrounded  by 
its  bright  aureole  of  hazy  golden  hair. 

'    Robert  Audley  had  been  a  week  at  the  Court,  but  as  yet  nei.ther  he 
nor  my  lady  had  mentioned  the  name  of  George  Talboys. 

This  morning,  however,  after  exhausting  the  usual  topics  of  conversa- 
tion, Lady  Audley  made  an  inquiry  about  her  nephew's  friend — "  that 
Mr.  George — George "  she  said,  hesitating.  ^ 

"  Talboys,"  suggested  Robert. 

■"  Yes,  to  be  sure — Mr.  George  Talboys.  Rather  a  singular  name  by 
the  bye,  and  certainly,  by  all  accounts,  a  very  singular  person.  Have 
you  seen  him  lately  V 

"  I  have  not  seen  him  since  the  7th  of  September  last — the  day  upon 
which  he  left  me  asleep  \n  the  meadows  on  the  other  side  of  the  village." . 

"  Dear  me  !"  exclaimed  my  lady,  "what  a  very  strange  young  man 
this  Mr.  George  Talboys  must  be !     Pray  tell  me  all  about  it." 

Robert  told,  in  a  few  words,  of  his  visit  to  Southampton  and  his 
journey  to  Liverpool,  with  their  different  results,  my  lady  listening  very 
attentively.  , 

In  order  to  tell  this  story  to  better  advantage,  the  young  man  left  his 
chair,  and,  crossing  the  room,  took  up  his  place  opposite  to  Lady  Aud- 
ley, in  the  embrasure  of  the  window. 

"  And  what  do  you  infer  from  all  this?"  asked  my  lady,  after  a  pause. 
"It  is  so  great  a  mystery  to  me,"  he  answered,  "that  I  scarcely  dare 
to  draw  any  conclusion  whatever ;  but  in  the  obscurity  I  think  I  can 
grope  my  way  to  two  suppositions,  which  to  me  seem  almost  cer- 
tainties." 

"  And  they  are " 

"  First,  that  George  Talboys  never  went  beyond  Southampton.  Se- 
cond, that  he  never  went  to  Southampton' at  all." 

"  But  you  traced  him  there.     His  father-in-law  had  seen  him." 
"  I  have  reason  to  doubt  his  father  in-law's  integrity." 


LADY  AUDLKY'S  SECRET.  85 

"  Good  gracious  me!"  cried  .my  lady,  piteously.     "What  do  you 
mean  by  all  thisf 

"  Lady  Audley,"  answered  the  young  man,  gravely,  "I  have  never 
practised  as  a  barrister.  I  have  enrolled  myself  in  the  ranks  of  a  pro- 
fession, the  members  of  which  hold  solemn  responsibilities,  and  have 
sacred  duties  to  perform;  and  I  have  shrunk  from  those  responsibilities 
and  duties,  as  I  have  from  all  the  fatigues  of  this  troublesome  life;  but 
we  are  sometimes  forced  into  the  very  position  we  have  most  avoided, 
and  I  have  found  myself  lately  compelled  to  think  of  these  things.  La- 
dy Audley.  did  you  ever  study  the  theory  of  circumstantial  evidence'?" 
"How  can  you  ask  a  pdor  little  woman  about  such  horrid  things?" 
exclaimed  my  lady. 

':  Circumstantial  evidence,"  continued  the  young  man,  as  if  he  scaree- 
sard  Lady  Audley's  interruption,  "that  wonderful  fabric  which  is 
built  out  of  straws  collected  at,  every  point  of  the  compass,  and  which  is 
yet  strong  enough  to  hang  a  man.  Upon  what  infinitesimal  trifles  may 
sometimes  hang  the  whole  secret  of  some  wicked  mystery,  inexplicable 
heretofore  to  the  wisest  upon  tho  earth  !  A  scrap  of  paper  ;  a  shred  of 
some  torn  garment  ;  the  button  off  a  coat ;  a  word  dropped  incautiously 
from  the  over-cautious  lips  of  guilt;  the  fragment  of  a  letter;  the  shut- 
ting or  opening  of  a  door  ;  a  shallow  on  a  window-blind;  the  accuracy 
of  a  moment,  tested  by  one  of  Benson's  watches;  a  thousand  circum- 
stances so  slight  a?  to  be  forgotten  by  the  criminal,  but  links  of  iron  in 
the  wonderful  chain  forged  by  the  science  of  the  detective  officer;  and, 
lo !  the  gallows  is  built  up  ;  the  solemn  bell  tolls  through  the  dismal 
gray  of  the  early  morning;  the  drop  creaks  under  the  guilty  feetj  and 
the  penalty  of  crime  is  paid." 

Faint  shadows  of  green  and  crimson  fell  upon  my  lady's  face,  from  the 
painted  escutcheons  in  the  mullioned  window  by  which  she  sat ;  but 
every  trace  of  the  natural  color  of  that  face  had  faded  out,  leaving  it  a 
ghastly  ashen  gray. 

Sitting  quietly  in  her  chair,  her  head  fallen  back  upon  the  amber  da- 
mask cushions,  and  her  little  hands  lying  powerless  in  her  lap,  Lady 
Audley  had  fainted  away. 

"The  radius  grows  narrower  day  by  day,"  said  Robert  Audley. 
"  George  Talboys  never  reached  Southampton. "' 


g£  LADY    AUDLCYs.  SECRET. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

ROBERT  AUDREY  GETS  HIS  CONGE. 

The  Christmas  week  was'  overj  and.one  by  one  the  country  vi 
dropped  away  from  Audley  Couit.  The  fat  squire  and  hi-;  wife  aban- 
doned the  gray,  tapestried  chamber,  and  left  the  black  browed  warriors 
looming  from  the  wall  to  scowl  upon  and  threaten  new  guests,  xor  to 
glare  vengefully  upon  vacancy.  The  merry  girls  oh  the  second  story 
packed,  or  caused  to  be  packed,  their  trunks  and  imperials,  and  tumbled 
gauze  ball-dresses  were  taken  home  that  had  been  brought  fresh  to  Aud- 
ley.  Blundering  old  family  chariots,  with  horses  whose  untrimmed  fet- 
locks'told-  of  rougher  work  than  even  country  roads,  were  brought  round 
to  the  broad  space  before  the  grim  oak  door,  and  laden  with  chaotic 
heads  of  womanly  luggage.  Pretty  rosy  faces  peeped  out  of  the  car- 
riage windows  to  smile  the  last  farewell  upon  the  group  at  the  hall-door, 
as  the  vehicle  rattled  and  rumbled  under  the  ivied  archway.  Sir  Mich- 
ael was  in  request  everywhere.,  Shaking  hands  with  the  young  sports- 
men ;  kissing  the  rosy-cheeked  girls ;  sometimes  even  embracing  portly 
matrons  who  came  to  thank  him  for  their  pleasant  visit;  everywhere* 
genial',  hospitable,  generousi  happy,  and  beloved,  the  baronet  hurried 
from  room  to  room,  from  the  hall  to  the  stables,  from  the  stable9to  the 
court-yard,  from  the  court  yard  to  the  arched  gateway  to  speed  the  part- 
ing guest. 

My  lady's  yellow  curls  flashed  hither  and  thither  like  wandering  gleams 
of  sunshine  on  these  busy  days  of  farewell.  Her  great  blue  eyes  had  a 
pretty,  mournful  look,  in  charming  unison  with  the  soft  pressure  of  her 
little  hand,  and  that  friendly,  though  perhaps  rather  stereotyped  speech, 
in  which  she  told  her  visitors  how  s"he  was  so  sorry  to  lose  them,  and 
how  she  didn't  know  what  she  should  do  till  they  came  once  more  to 
enliven  the  Court  by  their  oharming  society. 

But  however  sorry  my  lady  might  be  to  lose' her  visitors,  there  was 
at  least  one  guest  whose  society  she  was  not  deprived  of.  Robert  Aud- 
ley  showed  no  intention  whatever  of  leaving  his  uncle's  house.  Pie  had 
no  professional  duties,  he  said;  Fig  tree  Court  was  delightfully  sTiady  in 
hot  weather,  but  there  was  a  sharp  corner  round  which  the  wind  came 
in  the  winter  months,  armed  with  avenging  rheumatisms  and  influenzas. 
Everybody  was  so  good  to  him  at  the  Court,  that  really  he  had  no  in- 
clination to  hurry  away. 

Sir  Michael  had  but  one  answer  to  this  :  "  Stay,  my  dear  boy  ;„  stay, 
my  dear  Bob.  as  long  as  ever  you  like.  I  have  no  son,  and  you  stand 
$o  me  in  the  place  of  one.  Make  yourself  agreeable  to  Lucy,  and  make 
the  Court  your  home  as  long  as  you  live," 


LADY  ATJDLE3  87 

To  which  Robert  would  merely   reply   by  grasping  his  uncle's  hand 
uently,  ai  ping  som.ethin  ;  about,  "ajollj  old  prince." 

Il  was  to  be  ob  erved  that  there  was  sometimes  :\  certain  va«ue  sad- 
ness in  ths.'  young  man's  lone  when  he  called  Sir  Michael  "a  jolly  old 
prince  ;"■  some  shadow  of  affectionate  regret  that  brought  a.  mist  into 
Robert's  eyes,  as  he  sat  in  a. corner  of  the  room  looking  thoughtfully  at 
the  white-bearded  baronet. 

Before  the  last  of  the  young  sportsmen  departed,  Sir  Harry  Towers 
:  and  obtained  an  interview  with  Miss  Alicia  Audley  in  the  oak 
library' — an  interview  in  which  considerable  emotion  was  displayed  by 
the  stalwart  young  fox-hunter ;  so  much  emotion,  indeed,  and  of  such  a 
genuine  and  honest  character,  that  Alicia  fairly  broke  down  as  she  told 
him  that  she  should  forever  esteem  and  respect  him  for  his  true  and  no- 
ble heart,  but  that  he  must  never,  never,  never,  unless  he  wished  to 
cause  her  the  most  cruel  distress,  ask  more  from  her  than  this  esteem 
and  respect. 

Sir  Harry  left  the  library  by  the  French  window  opening  into  the 
pond-garden.  He.strollcd  into  that  very  lime-walk  which  George  Tal- 
boys  had  compared  to' an  avenue  in  a  church-yard,  and  under  the  leaf- 
less trees  fought  the  battle  of  Ids  brave,  young  heart. 

"  What  a  fool  1  am  to  feci  it.  like  this!"  he  cried,  stamping  his  foot 
upon  the  frosty  ground.  "  I  always  knew  it  would  be  so  ;  I  always 
knew  that  she  was  a  hundred  times  too  good  for  me.'  God  bless  her! 
How  nobly  and  tenderly  she  spoke  ;  how  beautiful  she  looked  with  the 
crimson  blushes  under  her  brown  skin,  and  the  tears  in  her  big,  "ray 
eyes — almost  as  handsome  as  the  day  she  took  the  sunk  fence,  and  let 
ut  the  brush  in  her  hat  as  we  rode  home  !  God  bless  her  ^  I  can 
get  over  any  thing  as  long  as  she  doesn't  care  for  that  sneaking  lawyer. 
But  I  couldn't  stand  that." 

That  sneaking  lawyer,  by  which  appellation  Sir  Harry  alluded  to  Mr. 
Robert  Audlcy,  was  standing  in  the  hall,  looking  at  a  map  of  the  mid. 
land  counties,  when  Alicia  came  out  of  the  library,  with  red  eyes,  after 
her  interview  with  the  fox-hunting  baronet. 

Robert,  who  was  short-sighted,  had  his  eyes  within  half  an  inch  of  the 
surface  of  the  map  as  the  young  lady  approached  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  Norwich  is  in  Norfolk,  and  that  fool,  young  Vincent, 
said  it  was  in  Herefordshire.     Ha.  Alicia,  is  that  you '?" 

lie.  turned  round  so  as  to  intercept,  Miss  Audley  on  her  wav  to  the 
stairc. 

'   ¥es."  replied  his  cousin  curtly,  trying  to  pass  him. 

"Alicia,  you  have  been  (Tying."1 

The  young  lady  did  not  condescend  to  reply; 

"You  have  been  crying.  All  ia.  Sir  Harry  Towers,  of  Towers  Park, 
inj  the  county  of  Herts,  has  been  making  you  an  oiler  of  his  hand 
eh  ?" 

■  live  you  been  listening  at  tho  door,  Mr.  Audley  ?'' 

"  I  have  n<>t,  Miss  Audley.     On  principle,   J   object  to  listen,  and  in 
■e  I  believe  it  to  b  troublesome  proceeding ;  bull  am  a 


gg  LADY    AUDL&Y'S  SECRl 

barrister,  Miss  Aticia,  a:id  abl  a  conclusion  by  induction.     Do 

you  know  what  inductive  evid  diss  Audley?" 

"  No,"  replied  Alicia,  looking  at  her  cousin  as  a  handsome  young  pan- 
ther might  look  at  its  daring  tormentor. 

"I  thought  not.  1  dare  say  Sir  Harry  would  ask  if  it  war;  a  new  kind 
of  horse-ball,  I  knew  by  induction  thai  the  baronet  was  going  to.  make 
you  an  offer ;  first,  because  he  cam  stairs  with  his  hair  parted  <  n 

the  wrook  side,  and  his  face  as  pale  as  the  table  cloth ;  secondly,  bee 
he  couldn't  cat  any  breakfast,  and  let  his.,  coffee  go  the  wrong  v. 
thirdly,  because  he  asked  for  an  interview  with  you  before  he  left  the 
Court.     Well,  how's  it  to  be,  Alicia"?     Do  we  marry  t ho  baronet,  and  , 
is  poor  Cousin  Bob  to  be  the  best  man  at  the  weddin 

"Sir  Harry  Towers  is  a  noble-hearted  young  man,"  said  Alicia,  still 
trying  to  pass  her, cousin.  . 

"  But  do  we  accept  him — yes  or  no  ?  Are  we  to  be  Lady  Towers, 
with  a  superb  estate  in  Hertfordshire,  summer  quarters  for  our  hunters, 
and  a  drag  with  outriders  to  drive  us  across  to  papa's  place  in  .Essex'? 
Is  it  to  be  so,  Alicia,  or  not?" 

"What  is  that  to  you,  Mr.  Robert  Audley?"  cried  Alicia,  passionate- 
ly. •  "  What  do  you  care  what  becomes  of  me,  or  whom  I  .man  y. .  If  I 
married  a  chimney-sweep,  you'd  only  lift  up  your  eyebrows  and  say, 
'Bless  my  soul,,  she  was  always  eccentric.'  I  have  refused  Sir  Harry 
Towers-  but  when  I  think  of  his  generous  and  unselfish  affection,  and 
compare  it  with  the  heartless,  lazy,  selfish,  supercilious  indifference  of 

other  men,  I've  a  good  mind  to  run  after  him,  and  tell  him -" 

"That  you'll  retract,  and  be  my  Lady  Towers':'' 
"Yes." 
-;  "Then  don't,  Alicia,  don't,"  said  Robert  Audley,  grasping  his  cousin's 
slender  little  wrist,  and  leading  her  up-stairs.  "Come  into  the  drawing- 
room  with  me,  Alicia,  my  poor  little  cousin  ;  my  charming,  impetuous, 
alarming  little  cousin.  Sit  down  here  in  this  mullioned  window,  and 
let  us  talk  seriously  and  leave  off  quarrelling  if,  we  can." 

The  cousins  had  the  drawing-room  all  to  themselves.  Sir  Michael 
was  out,  my  lady  in  her  own  apartments,  and  poor  Sir  Harry  Towers 
^walking  up  and  clown  upon  the  gravel  walk,  darkened  with  the  flickering 
shadows  of  the  leafless  branches  in  the  cold  winter  sunshine. 

"  My  poor  little  Alicia,"  said  Robert,  as  tenderly  as  if  he  had  been 
addressing  some  spoiled  child,  "  do  yen  suppose  that  because  people 
don't  wear  vinegar  tops,  or  part  their  hair  on  the  wrong  side,  or  conduct 
themselves  altogether  after  the  manner  of  well  meaning  maniacs,  by 
way  of  proving  the  vehemence  of  their  passion — do  you  suppose  because 
of  this,  Alicia  Audley,  that  they  may  not  be  just  as  sensible  of  the  merits 
of  a  dear  little,  warm-hearted,  and  affectionate  girl  as  ever  thei"  neigh- 
bors can  be?  Life  is  such  a  very  troublesome  matter,  when  all  is  said 
and  done,  that  it's  as  well  even  to  take  its  blessings  quietly.  I  don't 
make  a  great  howling  because  I  can  get  good  cigars  one  door  from  the 
corner  of  Chancery  Lane,  and  have  a  dear,  good  girl  for  my  cousin  ;  but 
I  am  not  the  less  grateful  to  Providence  that  it  is  so." 


LADY  AUDL. 

Alicia  opened  her' gray  eye--  to  I  st  extent-,  looking  her  cousin 

full   in   the  fice   with   a  red   st.iic.     Robert  had  picked  up  the 

ugliest  and  leanest   of  his  attendant  curs,  and  was  placidly  str< 
animal's  ears. 

"■  Is  this  all   you   have  to  say  to  me,   Robert?"  Miss  Aiidley  ai 
meekly. 

"Well,  yes,  i  think  bo,"  replied  her  cousin,  after  considerable  delibera- 
tion. "  I  fancy  that  what  I'tarnled  t<>  -  this — don't  marry  the 
fox-huntii  if  yon  like  anybody  else  better;  forif  you'll  only 
>  life  easily,  and  try  and  reform  yourself  of  banging 
doors,  bouncing  in  and  out  oi  talking  of  the  stables,  and  riding 
e  no  doubt  the  person  you  prefer  will  make  you  a 
very  excellent  hu:  kind." 

'•Thank  isin,"  paid  Miss  Audley,  crimsoning  with  bright,  in- 

•  y\p  to  tin  her  waving  brown  Lair;  "bi 

may  not  know  the  person  1  prefer,  I  think  you  had  better  not  take 
your.-  for  him." 

Robert  pulled  the  dog's  car:  idly  for  some  mom 

"No,  to  be  sure,"  he  said,  after 'a  pause.    V  Of  course,  if  1  don't  know 

him 'but  I  thought  I  did,". 

id  yon?"  exclaimed  Alicia;   and  opening  the  door  with  a  violence 
that  made  her  cousin  shiver,  she  bounced  out  of  the  drawing-room. 

"I  only  said   1   thought  I  knew  hi  m,"  Robert  called  after  her ;  and 
then,  as  he  sank  in*  v. chair,  he  murmured  thoughtfully,  "Such 

a  nice  girl,'  tod,  if  she  didn"t  boun.  i 

So  poor  Sir  Harry  Towers  rode  away  from  Audley  Court  looking 
very  (  n  and  dismal. 

He  had  very  little  pleasure  now  in   returning  to  the  stately  mansion, 

ks  and  venerable  bei  ches.     The  square,  red 

brick  house  gleaming  at  the  end  of  a  long  arcade  of  leafless  trees  was  to 

be  forever  desolate,  he  thought,  since   Alicia    would  not  come  to  be  its 

mist  : 

A  hundred  improvements  planncdand  thought  of  \\  from 

his  mind  a  now.     The  hunter  that  Jim  the  trainer  king 

in  for  a  lady  ;  the  two  pointer  pups  that  were  being  reared  fov  the 
shooting  season  ;   the  big  black  retriever  that  would  have  carried  Ali 
parasol;  the  pavilion  in   the  garden,  disused   since  his  mother's  death, 
but  which   lie.  had    meant   to   have  restored  for  Miss  Audley — all  these 
things  were  now  so  much  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit. 

"  What's  the  good  of  being  rich,  if  one  has  no  one  to  help  spend 
money  V  said  the  young   baronet.     "  One  only  grows  a  selfish  beggar, 
and  takes  to  drinking  too   much   port.     It's  a  hard  thing  that  a  girl  can  ' 

■  a  true   heart  and    such   stables  the  park.     It  un- 

settles a  in.  t 

Indi  tion  had  very  much  unsettled  ih 

'.de  up  thl  j  "dug  ba 

ly  in  love  wit:  s(  hunt- 

wh(  n  be  had  met  her  at  f)  county  ball.     lib  passion,  i 

i 


!,ADV    ALM.EY':-  SECRET.     .       ' 

through  the  slow  monotony  of  a,  summer,  had  broke  in  tile 

merry    winter  young  man's  mawvci  i  had 

ed  the  offer  ofhis  hand. "  But  be  had  never  for  a  raon  |  bsed 

he   would  bejefused  ;  he  was  so  used  to  the  adulation  of  mothers 

who  had  daughters  to  marry,  and  of  even  the  daughters  themselves;  he 

had  been  so  accustomed   to  feel  himself  the  leading  personage  in  an 

tnbly,  although  half  the  wits  of  the  age  had  been  there,  am]  he  could 

only  say,  "Haw,  to   lie  sure!"  and  "By  Jove — hum!"  he  had  been  so 

(!    by  the  flatteries  of  bright    eyes  that  hud  looked,  or  seemed  to 

Lhe  brighter  when   he  drew  near,  that  without  being  possessed  of 

one  shMow  of  personal   vanity,  he   had   yet  come  to  think  that  he  had 

offer  to   the  prettiest  girl  in  Essex  to  behold  himself 

immediately  accepted. 

"  Yes,"  he  would  say  complacently  to  some  admiring  satelite,  •'  I  kno.w 
I'm  a  good  match,  and  I  know  what  makes  the  gals  so  civil.  They're  very 
pretty,  and  they're  very  friendly  to  a  fellow  ;  but  I  don't  care  aboirt 
They're  all  alike — they  can  only  drop -their  eyes  and  say, 'Lor, 
Sir  Harry,  and  why  do  you  call  that  <8»rly  black  dog  a  retriever  V  or,  'Oh, 
Sir  Harry,  and  did  the  poor  mare  Really  sprain  her  pastern  -shoulder- 
blade  ?'  1  haven't  got  much  brains  myself,  1  know,"  the  baronet  would 
add  deprecatlngly  ;  "and  I  don't  want  a  strong-minded  woman,  who 
writes  books  and  wears  green  spectacles;  but,  hang  it!  1  like  a  gal  who 
knows  what  she's  talking  about." 

So  when  Alicia  said  "  No,"  or  rather,  made  that  pretty,  speech  about 
esteem  and  respect,  which  well-bred  young  ladies  substitute  for  the  ob- 
noxious monosyllable,  Sir  Harry  Towers  felt  that  the  whole  fabric  of 
the  future  he  had  built  up  so  corrfpiacently  was  shivered  into  a  heap  of 
dingy  ruins. 

Sir  M-.ohacl  grasped  him  warmly  by  the  hand  just  before  the  young 
man  mounted  Ins  horse  in  the  courtyard. 

"I'm  ve  v  sorry,  Towers,"  he  said.  "You're  as  good  a  felbpw  as 
ever  breathed,  and  would  have  made  my  girl  an  excellent  husband ;  but 
you  know  there's  a  cousin,  and  1  think  that " 

•:  J  >Wt  say  that,  Sir  Michael,"  interposed  the  fox-hunter  energetical- 
ly. "  I  can  get  over  any  thing  but  thai.  A  fellow  whose  hand  upon 
the  curb  weighs  half  a  ton  (why,  he  pulled  the  Cavalier's  mouth  to  pie- 
ces, sir,  the  day  you  let  him  vide  the  horse);  a  fellow  who  turns  his  col- 
lars down,  and  eats  bread  and  marmalade!  No,  no,' Sir  Michael;  it's  a 
queer  world,  but  I  can't  think  that  of  Miss  Audley.  There  must  be 
some  one  in  the  background^  sir.;  it  can't  be  the  cousin." 

Sir  Michael  shook  his  head  as  the  rejected  suiter  rode  away. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  he  muttered.  "  Bob's  a  good  lad,  and  the 
girl  might  do  worse;  but  he  hangs  back,  as  if  he  didn't  care  for  her. 
There's  jsome  mystery — there's  some  nystery  !" 

The  old  baronet  said  this  in  that  semi-thoughtful  tone  with  which  we 
sneak  of  other  people's  affairs.  The  shadows  of  the  early  winter  twi- 
light,  gathering  thickest  under  the  low  oak  ceiling  of  the  hall,  and  the 
quaint  curve  of  the  arched  doorway,  fell  darkly  round  his   handsome 


let.  yi 

hu«n!  ;  but  the  light  of  his  declining  life,  his  beautiful  and  beloved  young 
wife,  was  near  him,  and  ho  could  see  no  shadows  when  she  was  bv. 

She  came  skipping  through  the  hall  to  meet-. him.  ai  rgold- 

en.rii  uricd  her  bright  head  on  her  husbands  breast.  » 

"Sotl  ■■■v  visitors  i?  gone,  dear,  and   we're   all   alone."'  she 

said.     "•  Isn't  (.hat  hi 

■;  Ves,  da  llv,  stroking  her  bright  hair. 

"Except  Mr.  Robert  Audley.     How  long  is  that'  nephew  of  yours 

ng  as  he  likes,  my  pet ;  he's  always  we 
net;  and  theu/aa  if  remembering  himself,  he  added  tenderly,  "  But  not 
unless  his  vjsil  ible  to  you,  darling ;  not  if  his  lazy  habits,  or 

nokiug,  or  his  dogs,  or  any  thing  about  him  is  displeasing  to  you.'} 
ly-  Audley  pursed  up  her  rosy  lips,  and  looked  thoughtfully  a 
ground.     . 

•'It  isn't  that,"  she  said  hesitatingly.     "Mr.  Dudley  is  a  very  agree-. 
ah!e  young  man,  'and  a  very  honorable  young  man  ;   but  you  know,  Sir 

Michael,  i  in  rather  a  young  aunt  for  such  a  nephew,  and " 

l*  And  what,  Lucy  I    asked  the  baronet  fiercely. 
'•  Tour  Alicia  is  rather  jealous  of  any  attention  Mr.  Audley  pay 
and — and — I  think  it  would  be  better  for  her  happiness  if  your  nephew 
to  bring  his  visit,  to  a  close." 
"  He  shall  go  to-night,  Lucy,"  exclaimed  Sir  Michael.     "  I'm  a  blind, 
neglectful  fool  not  to  have  thought  of  this  before.     My  lovely  little  dar- 
ling, it  wa,s  scarcely  just  to  Dob  to  expose  the  ]•  ir  fascina- 
tions.    I  know  him  to  be'as  good  and  true-hearted   a  "fellow   as   ever 
breathed,  but — but — he  shall  go  to-night." 

*'  But  you  won't  be  too  abrupt,  dear  ?     You  won't  be  rude  •" 
"Rude!     No,  Lucy.     I  left  him  smoking  in  tho  lime-walk.     I'll  go 
and  tell  him  that  he  must  get  out  of  the  house  in  an  hour.'" 

So  in  that  leafless  avenue,  under  whose  gloomy  shade  George  Talbnvs 
had  stood  on  that  ^thunderous  evening  before  th«  day  of  his  disappear- 
ance, Sir  Michael  Audley,  told  his  nephew  thaj  the  Court  was  no  home 
for  him,  and  that  nay  lady  was  too  young  and  pretty  to  accept  the  at- 
tentions of  a  handsome  nephew  of 

Rol  jged  his  shoulders  and  i  I  is  thick,  black 

Sir  Michai  ly  hinted  all  this.' 

"  I  have  been  attentive  to  my  lady,"  he  said.  "She  interests  mi — 
strongly,  strangely  interests  i  I  then,  with  a  c 

and  an  emotion  not  common   to  him,  he  turned   to  the   baronet,  and 
grasping  his  hand,  exclaimed,  "  God  forbid,  my  dear  uncle,  that.  1  should 
bring  trouble  upon  such  a  noble  heart  as  yours!     God  forbid   that 
the  lightest  shadow  ofdishouor  should  ever  fall  upon  your  ho: 
— least  of  all  through  aii}  «       line  !"' 

mg  man  uttered  these  few  words  in   a  broken  and  d 

■h  Sir  Michael  had  i  i  hen 

ay  his  head,  f  |i  wn. 

lie  left  the  Court  that  nigh  far.     Instead  of  taking 

/ 


lady  a;  DLEY' 


the  evening  train  for  London,  he  went  straight  up  to  the  little  village  of 
Mount  Stanniog,  and  walking  into  tlie  neatly  kept  inn,  asked  Phoebe 
Marks  if  he  could  be  accommodated  with  apartments. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

AT  THE  CASTLE  INN. 

The  little  sitting-room  into  which  Phcebe  Marks  ushured  the  baro- 
net's nephew  was  situated  on  the  grouudfioor,  and  only  separated  by  a 
lath-arid-plaster  partition  from  the  little  bar-parlor  occupied  by  the  inn- 
keeper'and  his  wife.  , 

It  seemed  as  though  the  .wise  architect  who  had  superintended  the 
building  of  the  Castle  Inn  had  taken  especial  care  that  nothing  but  the 
frailest  and  most  flimsy  material  should  be  used,  and  that  the  wind, 
having  a  special  fancy  for  this  unprotected  spot,  should  have  full  play 
for  the  indulgence  of  its  caprices. 

To  this  end  pitiful  woodwork  had  been  used  instead  of  solid  masonry;  ' 
rickety  ceilings  had  been  propped  up  by  fragile  rafters,  and  beams  that 
threatened  on  every  stormy  night  to  T. ill  upon  the  heads  of  those  be- 
neath them  ;  doors  whose  specialty  was  never  to  be  shut,  yet  always  to 
be  banging ;  windows  constructed  with  a  peculiar  view  to  letting  in  the 
draught  when. they  were  shut,  and  keeping  out  the  air  when  they  were 
open.  The  hand  of  genius  had  devised  this  lonely  country  inn ;  .and  there 
was  not  an  inch  of  woodwork,  or  a  trowelful  of  plaster  employed  in  all 
the  rickety  construction  that  did  not  offer  i,ts  own  peculiar  weak  point 
to. every  assault  of  its  indefatigfblfc  foe. 

Robert  looked  about  himywiih  a  feeble  smile  of  resignation. 

It  was  a  change,  decidedly,  from  the  luxurious  comforts  of  Audley 
Court,  and  it  was  rather  a  strange  fancy  of  the  young  barrister  to  prefer 
loitering  at  this  dreary  village  holstery  to  returning  to  his  snug  cham- 
bers in  Fig-tree  Court. 

But  he4rad  brought  his  Lares  and  Penates  with  him,  in  the  shape  of 
his  German  pipe,  his  tobacco  canister,  half  a  dozen  French  novels,  and 
lifis  two  ill-conditioned,  canine  favorites,  which  sat  shivering  before  the 
smoky  little,  fire,  barking  shortly  and  sharply  now  and  then,  by  way»  of 
hinting  for  some  slight  refreshment. 

While  Mr.  Robert  Audley  contemplated  his  new  quarters,  Phoebe 
Marks  summoned  a  little  village  lad  who  was  in  the  habit  of  running 
errands  for  her,  and  taking  him  into  the  kitchen,  gave  him  a  tiny  note, 
carefully  folded  and  sealed. 

"  You  know  Audlev. Court  '*" 


LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET. 

"Yes,  mum." . 

"If  you'll  run  there  with  tin's  letter  to-night,  and  si  safe' 

]y  into  Lady  Audley's  hands,  I'll  give  you  a  shilling." 

"Yes,  mum." 

"You  understand?     Ask  to  see  my  lady;  you  can  snj 
sage — not  a  note,  mind — but  a  mi  om  Phcebe  Marks; 

you  see  her,  give  this  into  her  own  hand." 

"Yes,  mum." 

"  You  won't  forget  1" 

"  No,  mum." 

'•Then  be  off  with  you." 

The.  boy  waited  for  no  second  bidding,  but  in  'another  moment 
scudding  along  the  hilly  high  road,  down  the  sharp  descent  that  I 
Audi 

Phoebe  Marks  went  to  the  window,  an  ]  looked  out  at  the  black  : 
of  the  lad  hurrying  through  the  dusky  v.  inter  even  ! 
^  "If  there's  any  bad  meaning  in  tnjng  here/'  she  thought,  "my 

lady  will  know  of  it  in  time,  at  any  rate." 

,  Phoebe  herself  brought  the  neatly  arranged_  tea-  1  the  little 

povered  dish  of  ham  and  eggs  which  had  been  prepared  for  this  i 
for  visitor.     Her  pale  hair  was  as  smoothly  brai  her  light  gray 

dress  fitted  as  precisely  as  of  old.    'The  same  neutral  tints  per 
person   and  her  dress;   no  showy   roe-colored    ribbons  or  rustling  silk 
gown  proclaimed  the  well-to-do  ihmkecper's  wife,     Pflcebe  Marks 
a  perron  who  never  lost  her  individuality.     Silent  and  self-constrained, 
she  s  hold   herself  within    herself,  and  take  no  color  from  the 

outer  worl 

Robert  looked  at  her  thoughtfully  as  she  spread  the  cloth,  and  drew 
Me  nearer  to  the* fireplace. 
hat,"  lie  thought,  "is  n  woman  who  could  I 

The  dogs  looked  rathe;  suspiciously  at  the  quiet  figure  of  Mrs.  Marks 
r  softly  about   the   room,  from  the  teapot  to  the.  caddy,  and  from 
th"  caddy  to  the  kettle  singing  on  the  hob.  » 

"  Will  you  pour  out  my  tea  for  me,  Mrs.  Maries?"  said  Robert,  seat- 
ing himself  in  a  horse-hair  covered  arm-chair,  which  fitted  him  as  tightly 
in  every  direction  as  if  he  had  been  measured  for  it. 

"You  have  come  straight  from  the  Court,  sir,"  said  Phoebe,  a 
han  led  Robert  the  sugar-basin. 

"Yes  ;  I  only  left  my  uncle's  an  hour  agj 

"And  my  lady,  sir,  was  she.  quite  well  ? 

"Yes,  quite  well." 
•"As  gay  and  light-hearted  as  ever,  sir?" 

"As  gay  and  ligh*  or." 

Phoebe  retired  respectfully  after  haVii  but 

as  she  stood  with  her  hand  upon  the  lock  of  the  door  he 

"  You  knew  Lady  Audley  when  she  was  ' '  you 

not?"  he  asked. 

"Yes, air.    I  lived  at  Mrs.  Dawson's  when  my  lady  w.i 


94  L*DY   AUDLEY'ri  SEGRET; 

"  Indeed  !  .  Was  she  long  in  the  Surgeon's  farail; 

"A  year  and  a  half)  sir  " 

"And  she  came  from  London  ':'"' 

-Ye,  sir." 

'•And  she  was  an  orphan,  I  believe':"' 

"Yes,  sir." 

."Always  as  cheerful  as  she  is  now?" 

"Always,  sir." 

Robert  emptied  his  teacup  and  handed  it  to  Mrs.  Marks.  Their  eves 
met— a,  lazy  look  in  his,  and  an  active,  searching  glance  in  hers. 

"This   woman   would   be   good   in  a   wil  "he  thought;  "it 

would  take  a  clever  lawyer  to  bother  her  in  a  cross-examination." 

He  finished  his  second  cup  of  tea,  pushed  away  his  plate,  fed  his  dogs, 
and  lighted  his  pipe,  while  Phcebe  carried  off  the  tea-tr;  y. 

The  wind  came  whistling  up  across  the  frosty  open  country,  and 
through  the  leafless 'woods,  and  rattled  fiercely  at  the  wifidow-frain 

"There's  a  triangular  draught  from  those  two  windows  and  the  door 
that  scarcely  adds  to  the  comfort  of  this  apartment,"  murmured  Robert; 
"and  there  certainly  are  pleasariter  sensations  than  that  of  standing  up 
to  one's  knees  in  Cold  water." 

Ho  poked  the  il re,  patted  his  dogs,  put  on  his  great-coat,  rolled  a. 
rickety  old  sofa  close  to  the  hearth,  wrapped  his  legs  in  his'ralway  rug, 
and  stretching  himself  at  full  length  upon  the  narrow  horse-hair  cushion, 
smoked  his  pipe,,  and  watched  the  bluish  gray  wreaths  curling  slowly 
upward  to  the  dingy  ceiling.  * 

"  No,"  he  murmured  again ;  "  that  is  a  woman  who  can  keep  a  secret, 
A  counsel  for  the  prosecution  could  get  very  little  out  of  her." 

I  have  said  that  the  bar  parlor  was  only  separated  from  the  sitting- 
room  occupied  by  Robert  by  a  lath-and-praster  partition.  The  young 
barrister  could  hear  the  two  or  three  village  tradesmen  and  a  couple  of 
farmers  laughing  and  talking  round  the  bar,  while  Luke  Marks  served 
them  from  his  stock  of  liquors. 

Very  often  he  could  even  hear  their  words,  especially  the  landlord's,  for 
he  spokedn  a  coarse,  loud  voice,  and  had  a  more  boastful  manner  than 
any  of  his  customers. 

"The  man  is  a  fool,"  said  Robcrt/'as  he  laid  down  his  pipe.  "  I'll  go 
and  talk  to  him  by-and-by." 

He  waited  till  the  few  visitors  to  the  Castle  had  dropped  away  one 
by  one,  and  when  Luke  Marks  had  bolted  the  door  upon  the  last  of  his 
customers,  he  strolled  quietly  into  the  bar  parlor,  where  the  landlord 
was  seated  with  his  wife. 

Phcebe  was  busy  at  a  little  table,  upon  which  stood  a  prim  workbte, 
with  every  reel  of  cotton  and  glistening  steel  bodkin  in  its  appointed 
place.  She  was  darning  the  coarse  grey  stockings  that  adorned  her 
husband's  awkward  feet,  but  she  did  her  work  as  daintly  as  if  they  had 
been  my  lady's  delicate  silken  hose. 

I  say  that  she  took  no  color  from  external  things,  and  that  the.- vague 
air  of  refinement  that  pervaded  her  nature,  clung  to  her  as  closely  in  the 


LABI  AUDLKY's  SB  95 

society  of  her  husband  at  the  Castle  I  lleV's 

.    boudoir  at  the  Court. 

She  Jeoked   up  suddenly   as  Robert  entered  the.  bar  parlor,     "hero 
was  softie  Bhade  of  vexation  in  her  pale  gray  eyes,  which 
expression  of  anxiety — nay,  rather  of  almost  terror — as  shi  from 

Mr.  Audley  to#Luke  Marks. 

'•  1  have  come  in  for  a  few  minutes'  chat  befon  '  paid  Ro- 

•  ettl         imself  very  comfortably  before  th  I  fire.    "Would 

you  obje<  fc  to  a  rs.  Marks  .'     !  Mean,    i 

Jed,  explanatorily. 

"  Not  at  all,  sir. ' 

"  It  would  be  a  good  'un  her  obj 
Marks,  "when  me  and  the  customers  all  day." 

»crt  lighted  his  cigar  with  a  gill  paper  match  of  Ph.  king 

that  adorned  the  chimney  tivo  puffs 

before  he 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  all  about  Mount  Stu-  r.   Marks, r 

said  presently. 

"Then  that's  pretty  soon  told,"  replied  Luke,  with  a  harsh,  grating 
laugh.  "Of  all  the  dull  holes  as  ever  a  hnan  set  foot  in,  this  is  about 
the  dullest.  Not  that  the  business  don't  pay  pretty  tidy  ;  I  don't  com- 
plain of  that;  but  I  should  ha'  liked  a  public  at  ('!;■ 
wood,  or  Romford,  or  some  place  where  there's  a  bit  of  life  in  the  streets; 
and  I  might  have  had  it,"  he  added,  discontentedly,  "  if  folks  hadn't  ! 
so  precious  stir.-.. 

As  her  husband  muttered  this. .complaint,  in  a  grumbling  undertone,; 
Phoebe  looked  up  from  her  work  and  spoke  to  him. 

"  We  forgof  the  brewhouse  door,  Luke,"  she  said.     ■  "Will  you  come 
With  me  and  help  me  put  up  the  bar?" 

"The  brewhouse  door  can  bide  for  to-night,"  s-::  I  Mr.  Marks  ;  "I  ain't 
agoin'  to  move  now  I've  b<  ated  myself  tor  a  comfortable  smoke.'' 

He  took  a  lot  i  corner  of  the  fender  as  he  spoke,  and 

began  to  fill  it  deliberately. 

"I  <  easy  about  that  brew'  r,  L       ,"remonstrated 

his  wife;  "  there  are  always  tramps  about,  and,  'hey   can  get  in. 
win  n  the  bar  isn't 

■  >  and  put  the  bar  up   yourself,   then,   can't   Jrou  ?"  Mr. 

Marks. 

"It's  too  heavy  for  me  to  HI 

"  Then  let  it  bide,  if  you're  too  fino  a  lady   to   seo   to   it  yourself, 
re  very  anxious  all  of  a  sudden  about  this  here  brewhouse  door.      1 
suppose  you  don't  want,  me  to  open  my  mouth  to  this  gent,  that' 

'  Mi.  you  needn't  frown  at  me  to  stop  n  're  always 

putting  in  your  tongue  and  clippin  words  !  i 

n't  stand  it.     Do  you  hear  '     I  won't  stand 

Phoebe  Marks  shrugged  her  shoulder  I  herworkl 

box.        I  with  her  gray  eyes  ti\ed  up. 

on  her  husband's  bull  like  fi«< 


96  '       LAI  Y    AUDEEV'S  SECitET. 

"Then  you  don't  particularly  care  to  live  at  Mount  Stanniug?"  said 
Robert,  politely,  as  if  anxious  to  Change  theconver&al 

"  No.  I  don't,"  answered  Luke;  '"and  I  don't  care  who  knows  it ;  and, 

as  I  said  before,  if  folks  hadn't  been  so  precious  stingy,  irnight  have  had 

a  public  in  a  ihrivin'   market   town,   instead   of  this   tumble-down,. old 

.  where  a  man  has  his  hair  l)lowed  oil*  his   head  .on   a   windy  day. 

What's  fifty  pound,  or  what's  a  hundred  pound V 

"Luke!  Luke!" 

"  No,  you're  notagoin'  to  stop  my  mouth  with  all  your  'Luke,  Lukes!' '' 
answered  Mr.  -Marks  to  his  wife's  remonstrance.  "I  say  again,  what's 
a  hundred  pound  ?" 

"  No,"  answered  Robert  Audley,  speaking  with  wonderful  distinct- 
ness, and  addressinghis  words  to  Luke  Marks,  but  fixing  his  eyes  upon 
Phoebe's  anxious  face.  "  What,  indeed,  is  a  hundred  pounds  to  a  man 
possessed  of  the  power  which  you  hold,  or  rather  which  your  wife  holds, 
over  the  person  in  question  V 

Phoebe's  face,  at  all  times  almost  colorless,  seemed  scarcely  capable 
of  growing  paler ;  but  as  her  eyelids  drooped  under  Robert  Audley's 
searching  glance,  a  visible  change  came  over  the  pallid  hues  of  her 
complexion. 

"  A  quarter  to  twelve,"  said  Robert,  looking  at  his  watch.  "  Late 
hours  for.  such  a  quiet  village  as  Mount  Standing:  Good-night,  my  wor- 
thy hos£.  Good-night,  Mrs.  Marks.  You  needn't  send  me  my  shaving 
water  till  nine  o'clock  to-morrow  morning." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

ROBERT  RECEIVES  A  VISITOR   WHOM  HE  HAD  SCARCELY  EXPECTED. 

Eleven  o'clock  struck  the  next  morning,  and  found  Mr.  Robert  Audley 
still  lounging  over  the  well  ordered  little  breakfast-table,  with  one  of 
his  dogs  at  each  side  of  his  arm-chair,  regarding  him  with  watchful  eyes 
and  opened  mouths,  awaiting  the  expected  morsel  of  ham  or  toast.  Ro- 
bert had  a  county  paper  on  his  knees,  and  made  a  feeble  effort  now  and 
then  to  read  the  first  poge,  which  was  filled  with  advertisements  of  farm- 
ing stock,  quack  medicines,  and  other  interesting  matter. 
.  The  weather  had  changed,  and  the  snow,  which  had  for  the  last  few 
days  been  looming  blackly  in  the  frosty  sky,  fell  in  great  feathery  flakes 
against  the  windows,  and  lay  piled  in  the  little  bit  of  garden  ground 
without. 

The  long,  lonely  road  leading  toward  Audley  seemed  untrodden  by  a 
footstep,  as  Robert  Audley  looked  out  at  the  wintry  landscape. 


LADY  AUDLEY'S  SEORET.  07 

I 

"  Lively,"  ho  said.  "  ibr  a  man  used  to  the  fascinations  of  Temple  Bar." 

As  he  watched  the  snow-flakes  filling  every  moment  thicker  and  fast- 
er upon  the  lonely  road,  he  was  surprised  by  seeing  a  brougham  driving 
slowly  up  the  hill. 

•■  i  wonder  what  unhappy  wretch  has  too  restless  a  spirit  to  stop  at 
home  on  such  a  morning  as  this,"  he  muttered,  as  he  returned  to  the 
arm-chair  by  the  fire.  , 

He  had  only  reseated  himself  a  few  momenta  when  Phoebe  Marks 
entered  the  room  to  announce  Lady  Audley. 

41  Lady  Audley  !  Pray  beg  her  in  eonie  in,"  said  Robert ;  and  then, 
as  Phoebe  left  the  room  to  usher  in  this  unexpected  visitor,  he  muttered 
between  his  teeth — "  A  false  move,  my  lady,  and  one  I  never  looked  for 
from  y 

Lucy  Audley  was  radiant  on  this  cold  and  snowy  January  morning. 
Other  people's  noses  arc  rudely  assailed  by  the  sharp  fingers  of  the  grim 
ice-king,  but  not  my  lady's;  other  people's  lips  turn  pale  and  blue  with 
the  chilling  influence  of  the  bitter. weather,  but  my  lady's  pretty  little  rose- 
bud of  a  mouth,  retained  its  brightest  coloring  and  cheeriest  fresh- 
ness. 

She  was  wrapped  in  the  very  sables  which  Robert  Audley  had.  brought 
from  Russia,  and  carried  a  muff  that  the  young  man  thought  seemed 
almost  as  big  as  herself. 

She  rooked  a  childish,  helpless,  babyfied  little  creature  ;  and  Robert 
looked  down  upon  her  with  some  touch  of  pity  in  his  eyes,  as  she  came 
up  to  the  hearth  by  which  he  was  standing,  and  warmed  her  tiny  gloved 
hands  at  the  blaze. 

"  What  ;i  morning,  Mr.  Audley!"  she  said,  "what  a  morning!" 

"  Yes,  indeed  !  YV  hy  did  you  come  out  in  such  weather,  Lady  Audley?" 

"Becau*'-  1  wished  to  see  you — particularly." 

"  Indeed  !" 

"Yes,"  sail  ray  lady,  with  an  air  of  considerable  embarrassment, 
playing  with  the  button  of  her  glove,  and  almost  wrenching  it  oh'  in  her 
restlessness — "  yes.  Mr.  Audley,  I  felt  that  you  had  not  been  well  treated  ; 
that — that  you  had,  in  short,  reason  to  complain  ;  and  that  an  apology 
was  due  to  you.' 

"I  do  not  wish  for  any  apology,  Lady  Audley." 

"  But  you  arc  entitled  to  one,"  answered  my  lady,  quietly/.  "  Why, 
my  dear  Robert,  should  we  be  so  very  ceremonious  toward  each  other  ? 
You  were  very  comfortable  at  Audley  ;  we  were  very  glad  to  have  you 
there;  but  my  dear,  silly  husband  must  needs  tako  it  into  his  foolish 
head  that  it  is  dangerous  for  his  poor  little  wife's  peace  of  mind  to  have 
a  nephew  of  eight  or  nine  and  twenty  smoking  his  cigars  in  her  boudoir, 
and,  behold!  our  pleasant  little  family  circle  is  broken  up." 

Lucy  Audley  spoke  with  that  peculiar  childish  vivacity  which  se  rned 
so  natural  to  her,  Robert  looking  down  almost  sadly  at  her  bright, 
animated  face. 

"  Lady  Audley,"  he  said,  "  Heaven  forbid  that  either  you  or  I. should 
ever  bring  grief  or  dishonor  upon  ray  uncle's  generous  heart!     Betr.r. 


98  -adv  a  .eOret. 

perhaps,  that  I  should  be  out  of  the  house — jotter,  perhaps,  that  I  had 
never  entered  it!" 

My  lady  had  been  looking  at  the  fire  while  her  nephew  spoke,  but  at 
his  last  words  she  lifted  her  head  suddenly,  and  looked  Him  full  iu  the 
face  with  a  wondering  expression — an  earnest,  questioning  gaze,  whose 
full  meaning  the  young  barrister  understood. 

"  Oh,  pray  do  not  be  alarmevl,  Lady  Audley,"  he  said  gravely.  "  You 
have  no  sentimental  nonsense,  no.silly  infatuation,  borrowed  from  Balzac 
or  Dumas  ftls,  to  fear  from  me.  The  benchers  of  the  Inner  Temple  will 
tell  you  that  "Robert  Audley  is' troubled  with  none  of  the  epidemics 
whose  outward  signs  are' turn-down  collars  and  Byronic  necties.  I  say 
that  I  wish  I  had  never  entered  my  uncle's  house  during  the  last  year; 
but  I  say  it  with  fai  more  solemn   meaning  than  any  sentimental  one." 

My  lady  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

'•Jf  you  insist  on  talking  in  enigmas,  Mr.  Aud]ey,"  she  said,  "you 
must  forgive  a  poor  little  woman  if  she  declines  to  answer  them." 

Robert  made  no  reply  to  this  speech.  , 

4i  But  tell  me,"  said  my  lady,  with  an  entire  change  of  tone,  "what 
could  have  induced  you  to  come' up  to  this  dismal  place  ?•"' 

"  Curiosity." 

"Curiosity?" 

•  Yes  ;  I  felt  an  interest  in  that  bull-necked  man,  with  the  dark  red 
hair'and  wicked  gray  eyes.  A  dangerous  man,  my  lady — a  man  in  whose 
power  I  should  not  like  to  be." 

A  sudden  change  came  over  Lady  Audley's  face  ;  the  pretty,  roseate 
flush  faded  out  from  her  cheeks,  and  left  them  waxen  white,  and.  angry 
flashes  lightened  in  her  blue  eyes. 

"What  have  1  done  to  you,  Robert  Audley,"  she  cried  passionately 
— "what  have  I  done  to  you  that  yon  should  hate  me  so?" 
-    He  answered  her  very  gravely — 

"I  had  a  friend,  Lady  Audley,  whom  I  loved  very  dearly,  and  since  I 
have  lost  him  J  fear  that  my  feelings  toward  other  people  are  strangely 
embittered." 

"You  mean  the  Mr.  Talboys  who  went  to  Australia." 

"Yes,  I  mean  the  Mr.  Talboys  who  I  was  told  set  out  for  Liverpool 
with  the  idea  of  going  to  Australia." 

"And  you  do  not  believe  in  his  having  sailed  for  Australia?"  , 

"  [  do  "not." 

"  But  why  not  ?" 

"Forgive  me,  Lady  Audley,  if  I  decline  to  answer  that  question." 

"As  you  please,"  she  said,  carelessly. 

"A  week  after  my  friend  disappeared,"  continued  Robert,  "  I  posted 
an  advertisement  to  the'  Sydney  and  Melbourne  papers,  calling  upon 
him  if  he  was  in  either  city  when  the  advertisement  appeared,  to  write 
and  tell  me  of  his  whereabouts,  and  also  calling  on  any  one  who  had 
met  him,  either  in  the  colonies  or  on  the  voyage  out,  to  give  me  any  in- 
formation respecting  him.  George  Talboys  left  Essex,  or  disappeared 
from  Essex,  on  the  6th  of  September  last.     I  ought  to  receive  some 


LADY  Al  !!{♦ 

answer  to  this  i  ad  of  this  month.     To-day  is  the 

27th:  the  time  draws  ver.\  near."' 

i  if  you  receive  no  answer:'  Audlcy. 

»  no  answer*  I  shall  think  that  my  tears  have  been  not  un- 

founded, and  1  shall  d  •  m)  best  to  act." 

••  What  do  you  mean  I 

••A'i:.  Lady  rYudley,  y<  a  remind  me  how  very  powerless  1  am  in  this 
matter.  My  friend  Blight  have  been  made  away  with  in  this  very  inn, 
ancUI  might  stay  here  Jin-  a  twelvemonth,  and  go  away  at  the  last  as 
rant  of  his  fate  as  if  1  had  never  crossed  the  threshold.  What  do 
we  know  of  the  mysteries  that  may  hang  about  the  hotises  we  enter? 
If  I  were  to  go  to-morrow  .into  that.-common  fit-roomed 

house  in  which  Maria  Manning  and  her  husband  murdered  their  gi 
I  should  have  no  awful  prescience  .of  that  bygone  horror.     Foul  deeds 
le  under   the  most  hospitable  roofs ;    terrible  primes  have 
been  committed  amid  tli  scenes,  and  have  left  no  trace  upon  the 

spot  where  they  wc  1  do  not  believe  in  mandrake,  or  in  blood- 

stains that  no  time  can  efface.  I  believe  rather  that  we  may  walk  un- 
consciously in  an  atmosphere  of  crime,  and  breathe  "none  the  less  freely. 
1  believe  that  wc  may  look  .into  the.  smiling  face  of  a  murderer,  and 
admire  its  tranquil  bcauJy." 

My  lady  laughed  at  Robert's  earnestness. 

"  You  scum  to  have  quite  a  taste  for  discussing  these  horrible  subjects," 
she  said,  rather  scornfully  ;  "  von  ought  to  have  been  a  detective  police 
officer."  •  I 

"I  sometimes  think  I  should  have  been  a  good  one." 
'    "Why?" 

"  Because  I  am  patient." 

"But  to  return  to  Mr.  George  Talboys,  whom  we  lost  sight  of  in  your 
eloquent  discussion.  Vv 'hat  if  you  receive  no  answer  to  your  advertise- 
ments ?:< 

"  i  shall  then  oonsider^myself  justified  in  concluding  my  friend  is  dead." 

"Yes,  and  then ?" 

"  I  shall  examine  the  effects  he  left  at  my  charabecs." 

"Indeed!  am  re  they?    Coats,  waistcoats,  varnished  boots,  and 

meerschaum  pipes,  1  suppose,    said  Lady  Audley,  laughing. 

"No;  letters — letters   from   his   frionds,   his  olfellows,    his 

father,  his  brother  officers." 

"  Yes  ?" 

too,  from  his  wife..*' 

My  lady  was  silent  for  some  few  moments,  looking  thoughtfully  at 
the  fire.  s 

"Have  you  ever  seen  any  of  the  letters  written  by  the  late  Mrs. 
Talboys  ?"  sh  •  asked  present  I  \ . 

•  Nerer.  Poor  soul!  her  letters  are  not  likely  to  throw  much  light 
upon  my  friend's  fate.  I  dare  say  the  wrote  the  usual  womanly  scrawl. 
There  are  very  few  who  write  so  charming  and  uncommon  a  hand  as 
yours,  Lady  Audley.'J         * 


100  -  LADY  AUDLEY:S  SECRET. 

"Ah,  you  know  my  hand,  of  course." 

"Yes,  I  know  it  very  well  indeed.'' 

My  lady  warmed  her  hands  onco  more,  and  then  taking  op  the  big 
muff  which  she  had  laid  aside  upon  a  chair,  prepared  to  take  her  departure. 

"You  have  refused  to  accept  my  apology,  Mr.  Audley,"  she  said  ; 
"but  1  trust  you  are  not  the  less  assured  of  my  feelings  toward  yo.u." 

"  Perfectly  assured,'  Lady  Audley." 

"Then  good-by,  and  let  me  recommend  you  not  to  stay  long  in  this 
miserable  draughty  place,  if  you  do  not  wish  to  take  rheumatism  back 
to  Fig-tree  Court." 

"  I  shall  return  to  town  to-morrow  morning  to  see  after  my  letters." 

"Then  once  more  .good-by."  j 

She  held  out  her  hand  ;  he  took  it  loosely  in  his  own.  It  seemed 
such  a  feeble  little  hand  that  he  might  have  crushed  it  in  his  strong 
grasp,  had  he  chosen  to  be  so  pitiless. 

Ae  attended  her  to  her  carriage,  and  watched  it  as  it  drove  off,  not 
toward  Audley,  but  in  the  direction  of  Brentwood,  which  was  about  six 
miles  from  Mount  Stanning. 

About  an  hour  and  a  half  after  this,  as  Robert  "stood  at  the  door  of 
the  inn,  smoking  a  cigar  and  watching  the  snow  falling  in  the  whitened 
fields  opposite,  he  saw  the  brougham  drive  back,  empty  this  time,  to 
the  door  of  the  inn.  ,  ( 

"  Have  you  taken  Lady  Audley  back  to  the  Court  V  he  said  to  the 
coachman,  who  had  stopped  to  call  for  a  mug  of  hot  spiced  ale. 

"No,  sir  ;  I've  just  come  from  the  Brentwood  station.  My  lady  star- 
ted for  London  by  the  12.40  train." 

"For  town?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  My  lady  gone  to  London  ?"  said  Robert,  as  he  returned  to  the  little 
sitting-room.  "  Then  I'll  follow  her  by  the  next  train  ;  and  if  I'm  not 
very  much  mistaken,  I  know  where  to  find  her." 

He  packed  his  portmanteau,  paid  his  bill,  fastened  his  dogs  together 
with  a  couple  of  leathern  collars  and  a  chain,  and  stepped  into  the  rum- 
bling fly  kept  by  the  Castle  Inn  foF  the  convenience  of  Mount  Stanning. 
He  caught  an  express  that  left  Brentwood  at  three  o'clock,  and  settled 
himself  comfortably  in  a  corner  of  an  empty  first-class  carriage,  coiled 
up  in  a  couple  of  railway  rugs,  and  smoking  a  cigar  in  mild  defiance  of 
the  authorities. 


LAD?  AUDLEY'S  SECRET.  J  01 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  WRITING  IN  THE  BOOK.      _ 

It  was  exactly  five  minutes  past  four  as  Mr.  Robert  Audley  stepped 
out  upon  the  platform  at  Shoreditch,  and  waited  placidly  until  Buch  time 
as  his  dogs  and  his  portray  hould  lie  delivered  up  to  the  attendant 

porter  who  had  called  his  cub,  and  undertaken  the  general  conduct  of 
his  affairs  ;  with  that  disinterested  courtesy  which  does  such  infinite 
credit  to  a  class  of  servitors  who  are  forbidden  to  accept  the  tribute  of  a 
grateful  public.  Robert  Audley  waited  with  consummate  patience  for  a 
'  ierable  time  ;  but  as  the  express  was  generally  a  long  train,  and 
as  there  were  a  great  many  passengers  from  Norfolk  carrying  guns  and 
pointers,  and  other  paraphernalia  of  a  critical  description,  it  took  a  long 
while  to  make  matters  agreeable  to  all  claimants,  and  even  the  barris- 
ter's seraphic  indifference  to  mundane  affairs  nearly  gave  way. 

"Perhaps,  when  that  gentleman  who  is  making  such  a  noise  about  a 
pointer  with  liver-colored  spots,  has  discovered  the  particular  pointer 
and  spots  that  he  wants — which  happy  combination  of  events  scarcely 
seems  likely  to  arrive — they'll  give  me  my  luggage  and  let  me  go.  The 
designing  wretches  knew  at  a  glance  that  I  was  born  to  be  imposed  up- 
on :  and  that  if  they  were  to  trample  the  life  out  of  me  upon,  this  very 
platform,  I  should  never  have. the  spirit  to  bring  an  action  against  the 
company/'  Suddenly  an  idea  seemed  to  strike  him,  and  he  left  the 
porter  to  struggle  for  the  custody  of  his  goods,  and  walked  round  to  the 
othpr  side  of  I  he  station. 

He  had  heard  a  bell  ring,  and  looking  at  the  clock,  had  remembered 
that,  the  down  train  for  Colchester  started  at  this  time.  He  had  learned 
what  it  was  to  have  an  earnest  purpose  since  the  disappearance  of 
George  Tal  boys  ;  and  he  reached  the  opposite  platform  in. time  to  see 
the  passengers  take  their  se; 

There  was  one  lady  who  had  evidently  only  just  arrived  at  theatation; 
for  she  hurried  on  to  the  platform  at  the  very  moment  that  Robert  ap- 
proached the  train,  and  almost  ran  against  that  gentleman  in  her  haste 
and  excitement. 

'•  I  beg  your  pardon "  she  began,  ceremoniously  ;  then  raising  her 

eyes  from  Mr.  Audi  which  was  about  vn  a  ievel  with  her  * 

pretty  face,  she  exclaimed,  "  Robert,  you  in  London  already  ?"  ♦ 

"Yes.  Lady  Audley;  you  were  quite  right ;  the  Castle  Inn  is  a  dis- 
mal place,  and " 

I  ou  got  tired  of  it — I  knew  you  would.     Please  open  the  carriage 
door  for  me:  the  train  will  start  in  two  minutes." 


102 

Robert  Audlcy  w;  .'ife  with  rather  a  puzzled 

expression  of .' 

"'What  dqes  it  ]  ght.     "She  is  altogether  a 

being  to  the  wi  helpless  creature  who  dropped  her  mask  for  a, 

moment,  and  looked  at  me  with  her  own  pitiful  face,  in  fhe  little  room 
fount  Staniling,  four  hours  ago.     Wnal  has  happened  to  cause  the 

He  opened  the  door  for  her  while  he  thought  this,  and  helped  h< 
settle  hersi-if  iu  her  seat,  .Spreading  her  furs  ow.r  her  knees,  and  arrang- 
ing the.  huge  velvet  mantle  in  which  her  slender  little  figure  was  almost 
hidden. 

"Thank  you  very  much;  how  good  you  are  to  mo)*'  she  said,  as  he 
did  this.  "Yon  will  think  me  very  foolish  to  travel  upon  such  a  day, 
without  my  dear  darling's  knowk';ge  too  ;  hut  1  went  up  to  town  to 
settle  a  very  terrific  miliiner's  bili,  which  I  did  not  wish  my  best  of  hus- 
bandsfosee;  for,  indulgent  as  hfej is,  he  might  think  me  extravagant; 
and  I  cannot  bear  to  suffer  even  in  his  thought ./ 

"Heaven  forbid  that  you  ever  should,  Lady  And  ley,",  Robert  said. 
gravdv. 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  with  a  smile,  which  had  something 
defiant  in  its  brightness. 

"  Heaven  forbid  it,  indeed.'''  she  murmured.  "  I  don't  think  I  ever 
shall."" 

The  second  bell  rang,  and  the  train  inoved  as  she  spoke.  The  last 
"Robert  Audley  saw  of  her  was  that  bright,  defiant  smile. 

'•  Whatever  object  brought  her  to  London  has  been  successfully  ac- 
complished," he  thought.  "  Has  she  baffled  me  by  some  piece  of  wo- 
manly jugglery'?  Am  I  never  to  get  any' nearer,  to  the  truth,  but  am  I 
to  be  tormented  all  my  life  by  vague  doubts,  and  wretched  suspicions, 
which  may  grow  upon  me  till  I  bacomc  a  monomaniac?  Why  did  she 
come  to  London  ?" 

Ho  was  still  mentally  asking  himself  this  question  as  he  ascended  the 
stairs  in  Fig-tree  Court,  with  one  of  his  dogs  under  each  arm,  and  his 
railway  rug6  over  his  shoulder. 

He  found  his  chambers  in  their  accustomed  order.  The  geraniums 
had  been  carefully  tended,  and  the  canaries  had  retired  for  the  night  un- 
der cover  of  a  square  of  green  baize,  testifying  to  the  care  of  honest  Mrs. 
Malony.  Robert  cast  a  hurried  ghiuve  round  the  sitting-room  ;  then  set- 
ting down  the  dogs  upon  the  hearth-rug,  he  walked  straight  into  the  little 
inner  chamber  which  served  as  his  dressing-room. 

It  was  in  this  room  that  he  kept  disused  portmanteaus,  battered  ja- 
panned cases,  and  other  lumber ;  and  it  was   in   this   room   that  George 
Talboys  had  left  his  luggasie.     Robert  lifted  a  portmanteau  from  the  top 
'of  a  large  trunk,  and  kneeling. down  before  it  with  a  lighted  candle  in 
his  hand,  carefully  examined  the  lock. 

To  all  appearance  it  was  exactly  in  the  same  condition  in  which  George 
had  left  it,  when  he  laid  his  mourning  garments  aside  and  placed  them 
in  this  shabby  repository  with  all  other  memorials  of  his  de*id  wire.   Ro- 


N  liET.  103 

brushed  .bis  coat  si  ss   tlie  worn   I 

h  the.  initials  G.  T.  ribed  with  big  brass-headed  nail  - ;   but 

.  Malony,  the  laundress,  must  have  been  the  inostpn  ,    iouse» 

wives,  for  neither  the  portmanteau  nor  the  trunk-,  were  dust  v. 

Mr.  Audley  !i  his  Irish  attendant,  and  pared 

i  down  his  sitting-room.*  waiting  anxiously  for  her  arrival. 
Sh,  -  .   and,  nfi   r  expressing  her  delight  in 

the  r     .  humbly  aivaited  his  orders. 

>-J'i<n!\   sent  J'ur  you  to  ask  if«ai  een  here-,  that  is  to 

if  anybody  has  applied  to  you  for  th<    key'of  my   rooms  to-day — any 
lady  ??' 

"Lady?     No,  iud  honor;  there's   been  no  lady  Tor  the  hay  ; 

barrin'  il  ksmiih." 

"  The  blacksmith 

'•  Yes  :  the  blacksmith  your  honor  ordered  to  come  io-day.v 
"  J  order' A  blacksmith  ["exclaimed  Robert'.     '•  1  left  a  bottle  of  French 
brandy  in  the  cupboard/'  he  thought,  i:  and  Mrs.  M.  has  been  evidently 
enjoying  herself ." 

lure,  and  the  blacksmith  your  honor  tould  to  see   to   the  h 
plied  Mrs.  Mahmy.  lim  that  lives  down  in  one  of  the  little sti 

by  the  bridge,"'  she  added,  giving  a  very  lucid  description  of  the  man's 
whe  ■ekbouis. 

Robert  lifted  his  eyebrows  in  mute  deppair. 

'•  If  you'll  sit  down  and  compose  yourself,-  Mrs.  M.."  he  said — he  ab- 
breviated her  name  thus  on  principle,  for  the  avoidance  of  unnecessary 
labor — "|  ire  shall  be  able  by  and  by  to  understand  each  other. 

You  say  a  blacksmith  has  been  here  ?" 
•  .re  and  I  did,  sir." 
"To-day?" 
'•  Quite  correct,  sir." 

Step  by  step  Mr.  Audley  elicited  the  following  information.  A  lock- 
smith had  called  upon  Mrs.  Malony  thi  on  at  three  o'clock,  and 
had  asked  for  the  key  of  Mr.  Aud ley's  chambers ;  in 'order  that  he  might 
look  to  the.  locks  of  the  doors,  which  he  atated  were  all  out  of  repair. 
He  declared  that  he  was  acting  upon  Mr.  Audhy's  own  orders, convey- 
ed to  him  by  a  letter  from  the  country,  where  the  gentleman  was  spend- 
ing his  ruristi  .  Malony,  believing  in  the  truth  of  this  state- 
admitted  the  man  lambers,  where  he  stayed  about 
half  an  hour.                                    ■ 

"  But  you  were  with  1  amined  the  locks,  1   suppose''" 

Mr.  Audley  ask'-d. 

" Sure  1  was.  sir,  in  ai  you  may   say.   all    the   time;  for  I've 

ing  the  stairs  this  a&erne  1  took  the  opporofrunity  to 

inn  while  the  I  at  work." 

"jOhr,  you  were  in  and  out  all  the  time.     If  p  '  oonvenidbtly 

■give  me  a  plain  answer,  Mrs.  M..  I  should  be  glad  to  know  whal  wastba 

■>u  wcro  out  while  the  locksmith  was  in   my  <-ham- 

bers  f 


104  :aT- 

But  Mrs.  Malony  could  not  giv  answer.     It  migbthave  been 

ten  minutes;  though  she  didn't  think  it-was  as  much.  It  might  hrfve 
been  a  quarter"  -of  an  hour  ;  but  she  was  sure  it  wasn't  more.  It  didn't 
seem  to  her  more  than  live  minutes;  but  "  tbim  stairs,  your  honor  j* 
and  here  she  "rambled  off  into  a  disquisition  upon  the  scouring  of  stairs 
in  general,  and  the  stairs  outside  Robert's  chambers  in  particular. 

Mr.  Audley  sighed  the  weary  sigh  of  mournful  resignation. 

"  Never  Era.  M.,"  i  '  the  locksmith  had  plenty  Off  time- 

to  do  any  thing  he  wanted  to  du,  I  dare  say  ;  without  you're  being  any 
the  w 'i  . 

Mrs.  Malony  stared  at  her  employer  with  mingled  surprise  and  alarm. 
are;  there  wasn't  any  thin',  for  him  to  stale,  your  honor,  barrin?  the 
birrds  and  the  geranums^  and " 

"No,  no,  I  understand.  There,  that'll  do,  Mrs., M.  Tell  me  where 
the  man  lives,  and  I'll  go  and  see  him.." 

"  But  you'll  have  a  bit  of  dinner  first,  sir 

"  I'll  go  and  see  the  locksmith  before  i  have  my  dinner* 

He  took  up  his  hat  as  he  announced  his  determination,  and  walked 
toward  the  door. 

"  The  man's  address,  Mrs.  M.  ?" 

The  Irishwoman- directed  him  to  a  small  street  at  the  back  of  St. 
Bride's  Church,  and  thither  Mr.  Robert  Audley  quietly  strolled,  through 
the  miry  slush  which  simple  Londoners  call  atiow. 

■  He  found  the  locksmith,  and,  at  the  sacrifice  of  the  crown  of  his  hat, 
contrived  to  enter  the  low-,  narrow  doorway  of  a  little,  open  shop.  A 
jet  of  gas  was  flaring  in  the  unglazed  window,  and  there  was  a  very 
merry  party  in  the  little  room  behind  .the  shop  ;  but  no  one  responded 
to  Robert's  v  Hulloa !"  The  reason  of  this  was  sufficiently  obvious. 
The  merry  party  was. so  much  absorbed  in  its  own  merriment  as  to  be 
deaf  to  all  common-place  summonses  from  the  outer  world  ;  and  it  was 
only,  when  Robert,  advancing  further  into  the  cavernous  little  shop, 
made  so  bold  as  to  open  the  half-glass  door  which  separated  him  from 
the  merry-makers,  that  he  succeeded  in  obtaining  their  attention. 

A  very  jovial  picture  of  the  Teniers  school  was  presented  to  Mr.  Ro- 
bert Audley  upon  the  opening  of  this  door. 

The  locksmith,  with  his  wife  and  family,  and  two  or  three  droppers-in 
of  the  female  sex,  were  clustered  about  a  table,  which  was  adorned  by 
two  bottles  :  not  vulgar  bottles  of  that  colorless  extract  of  the  juniper 
berry,  much  affected  by  the  masses  ;  but  of  bond  fide  port  and  sherry — 
fiercely  strong  sherry,  which  left  a  fiery  taste  in  the  mouth,  nut-brown 
sherry — ratherunnaturally  brown,  if  anything — -ajid  fine  old  port;  no 
sickly  vintage,  faded  and  thin  from  excessive  age  ;  but  a  rich,  full-bodied 
wine,  sweet  and  substantial  and  high  colored. 

The  locksmith  was  speaking  as  Robert  Audley  opened  the  door. 

"And  with  that,"  he  said,  "she  walked  off  as  graceful  as  you 
please." 

The  whole  party  was  thrown  into  confusion  by  the  appearance  of  Mr. 
Audley  ;  but  it  was  to  be  observed  that  the  locksmith  was  more  em- 


LADY  a:  ,r:L       • 

than  his  companiotosi     I  lss  so  hurriedly, 

-lit  hi:;  wine,  and  wiped   bis  mouth  nervously  with  1 
dirty  hand. 

'•  You  called  at  my  chambers  to  bbert  said,  quietly.     "Don'lj 

Jet  mo   disturb   you,    la  'is  to  thi  .  s-in.     '•  Y 

»  Mr.  White,  and " 

man  interrupted  him; , 
'•1  hope,  sir,  you'll  be  look  over  the  mistake,"  he  stam- 

mered.    •■  Tin  I'm/very  sorry  it -should  have  occurred.     ]  was 

sent  for  to  ano  ri'a  chambers,  Mr.  Anlv.in,  in  Garden  Court; 

and  the  name  slipped  my  memory  ;  and  bavin'  done  re  for 

you,  I  thought  be  you   :i*  wanted    me   to-day  ;  and  I  called  at 

!>>r  the  key  accordin';   butdirectly  I  seethe  locks  in  your 
chambers,  I  says  t>>  myself,  'the  gentleman's  locks  ain't  out  of  01 
the  gentleman  rant  all  his   ■  aired".'" 

Lit  you  stayed  half  an  hour." 
"  Yes,  sir;  for  there  was  one  lock  out  of  order — the  door  i 
staircase — and  I  took  it  off  and  cleaned  it  and  put  it  on  again.     1  won't 
"U   nothin'  for  the  job,  and  I  hope   as  you'll  be 
t   ihe   mistake   as   has   occurred,   which  I've  been  in 

thirteen  year  come  July,  and " 

"  Nothing  of  this  kind  ever  happened  before,  I  suppose,  said  Robert, 
gravely.  "  No,  it's  altogether  a  singular  kind  of  husino>s,  not  likely  to 
come  about  ev.ery  day.     You've  been  enjoying  yourself  this  evening  I 

You've  done  a  good  stroke  of  work  to-day,-  I'll  \ 
—  made  a  lucky  hit,  and  you're  what  you  call,  'standing  treat/  eh?" 

i»ked  straight  into  the  manV  e  as  he  spoke. 

The  locksmith  was  not  a  bad  looking  fellow.  re  was  nothing  that 

'd  have  been  ashamed   of  in   his  pi  the  dil 

Handel's  rnotl  is  common  ;"  bu,t  in  spite  of  this.  Mr. 

eyelid  the  youi^  barrister's  calm  scrutiny,  stem* 

It   some   ape  .it  his  "mi  I  his 

missus's  neighbors,  and  pur:   wine  r^   wine,  with  as  much 

t  he,  an  i.  hanic  in  a  free  country,   weft  upon 

bert  Audley  for  being  caught  in 
enjoyil  If  in  his  own  ourlor. 

cut  him  sh 
"J'  apologi;  !  like  to  see  people  enjoy  them- 

.  White — good-night,  lasHes." 
lit'  ed '  hi  who 

y  manner,  andsorrti 

left  the  E 

*A  I  back  to  his 

"'wi: :  Who  \ 

;  and  wh  ksmith   v. 

TalbO]  .-.  a:n  I     •  ■■ 

Ymg  uonror  to  it  now,  slowly  lait  surely?     Is  the  radius  i«j 


Kit/  LADY  MJDLEY'S  SECRET. 

nan  •  it  draws  a  dark,  circle  round  the  hom 

How  is  it  all  to  end  '■" 

He  sighed  wearily  as  I  slowly  back  across  the  flagged  tquad- 

es  in  the  T  •  his  own  solitary  chambers, 

it  for  him   that  bachelor's  dinner,  which, 
however  excellent. and  nutritions  in  itself,   has  no  claim  to'tl 
charm  of  novel  e     Iced  for  him  a  mutton  chop,  which  was 

If  between  two  plates  upon  thu  little  table  near  the  fire. 

Robert  Audley  sighed  as  he  the  familiar  meal : 

bcring,his  uncle's  cpok  with  a  fond,  regretful  soi;i 

a  la  Maintenon  made  mytto'n  seem  more  than  mu^tpn  ; 
a  sublimated  meat  that  could  scarcely,  have  grown  upon  any  mundane 
sheep,1'  he  murmured,  sentimentally,  ''and  Mrs.  Malony's  chops  are  apt 
to  be  bough  ;  but  such  is  life — what  does  it  matter? 

pushed  away  his  plate  impatiently  after  eating  a  few  mouthfuls. 

4i  I  have  never  eaten  a  good  dinner  at  this  table  since  1  lost  George 
Tallboys,''  he  said.  "The  place  seems  as  gloomy  as  if  the  poor  follow 
had  died  in  the  next  room,  and  had  never  been  taken  away  to  be  buried. 
How  long  ago  that  September  afternoon  appears  as  I  look  back  at  it; — 
that  September  afternoon  upon  which  I  parted  with  him  alive  and  well; 
and  lost  him  as  suddenly  and  unaccountably  as  if  a  tvap-door  had  opened 
in  the  solid  earth  aud  let  him  through  to  the  Antipodes !" 

1\ir.  Audley  rose  from  the  dinher-table  and  walked  over  to  the  cabinet 
in  which  he  kept  the  document  he  had  drawn  up  relating  to  George 
Talboys;  He  unlocked  the  doors  of  this  cabinet,  took  the  paper  from 
the  pigeon-hole  marked  important,  and  se*ated  himself  at  his  desk  to 
write.  He  added  several  paragraphs  'to  those  in  Ihe  document,  number- 
ing the  fresh  paragraphs  as  carefully  as  he  had  numbered  the  old  ones. 

••  Heaven  help  us  all,"  he  muttered  once  ;  "  is  this  paper  with  which 
no  attorney  has  had  any  hand  to  be  my  first  brief?" 

He  wrote  for  about  half  an  hour,  then  replaced  the  document  in  the 
pigeon-hole,  and  locked  the  cabinet.  When  he  had  done  this,  he  took  a 
candle  in  his  hand,  and  went  into  the  room  in  which  were  his  own  port- 
manteaus and  the  trunk  belonging  to  George  Talboys. 

took  a  bunch  of  keys  from  his  pocket,  and  tried  them  one  by  one. 
The  lock  of  the  shabby  .old  trunk  was  a  common  one,  and  at  the  fifth 
trial  the  key  turned  easily. 

"  There'd  be  no  need  for  any  one  to  break  open  such  a  lock  as  this," 
muttered  Robert,  as  he  lifted  the  lid  of  the  ttsmk. 

He  slowl/ emptied  it  of  its  contents,  taking  out  each  article  separate- 
ly, and  laying  it  carefully  upon  a  chair  by  his  side.  He  handled  the 
things  with  a  respectful  tenderness,-  as  if  he  had  been  lifting  the  dead 
•body  of  his  lost  friend.  One  by  one  he' laid  the  neatly  folded  mourning 
garments  on  the  chair.  He  found  old  meerschaum  pipes,  and  soiled, 
crumpled  gloves  that  had  once  been  fresh  from  the  Parisian  maker ;  old 
play  bills,  whose  biggest  letters  spelled  the  names  of  actors  who  wete 
and.  gone;  old  perfume  bottles,  fragrant  with  essences,  whose 
on  had  passed  away ;  neat  little  parcels  df  letters,  each  carefully 


LAP  ET.  101 

'{  v  ith  i' 

a  lit; 

us   ham  I.     Bur, 
■  ot  wortlii  i  scrap  of  which  had  mic 

teparatc  '  it  Audlc; 

sought  —  1 1  an  by  his  dead 

. 
■  Lite  exist  tters.     Lie  had  se 

en t  hand';. and  he  1  him  replace  (I 

ther  with  I  lich  had  price 

nts  in  the  trunk.     Whether  he  had 
remo  tier  they  I  removed  since  his  disapj 

other  hand,  ii  wa;  no  iy;  butt!  .one. 

Robert  Audi 
box,  one  i )  he  had  taken  them  out.     1.  little 

of  tattered  books  i^  his-haml,  and  hesitated  for  a  moment. 
"I  will    keep   these   out,1' he   muttered,  "  the.  i  something  to 

help  iiu'  in  one  of  them." 

urge's  library  was  no  very  brilliant  collection  of  literature.  There 
:n  old  Greek  Testament  and  the  Eton  Latin  Grammar;  a  French 
pamphlet  on  the  cavalry  sword  excreiso ;  an  odd  volume  of  Tom  Jones, 
wit!)  one  halt  of  its  sthTleather  ooverlianging  to  it  by  a  thread;  Byron's 
Don  Juan,  printed  in  a  murderous  type,  which  must  have  been  inve 
for  the  special  advantage  of  oculists  and  opticians  ;  and  a  fat  book 
faded  giW  and  crimson  a 

Kofcert  Audi  the  trunk  and   took   the  books  under  his  arm. 

Mrs.  Malony  was  clearing  away'the  remains  of  hid  repast  when  he,  re* 
turned  to  his  sitting-room.  He  put  the  books  aside  on  a  little  table  in 
a  corner  of  the  fire-place, 'and  waited  patiently  while  the,  laundress  fin- 
ished her  work.  He  was  in  no  humor  even  for  his  meerschaum  conso- 
ler; the  yellow  papered  fie tiofcs  on  the  shelves  abo\»  hi-  head  seemed 
stale  and  profitless — he  opened  a  volume  of  Bal/ae.  but  his  traders  wife's 
n  '".iris  danced  and  trembled  in  a  glittering  haze,  alike  upon  the 
ical  diablerie  of  the  /  Chagrin,  wad  the  hideous  social 

s  Bctic.''     The  volome  dropped  from  his   hand. 
he  sat  wearily  watel  ipt  up  th  >n*the 

the  dark  damask  curtains,  supplied  the 
and  put  on  her  bonnet  in  the  disused  clerk's 
i,  prior  to.  bidding  hef  employer  good-night.     As  the  door  . 
upon  from  his  chair,  and  paced  up 

and  down  the  r< 

with  this, 

•.  hour  by  hou 
which  of  all  others   I  should  avoid?     Am  !  wheel,  an'1  n 

go  wi  volution,  let.  it  take  me  where  it  will  ?     (  )t  can  1  sit 

i  to  my  r 

.  but  I  have  searched  in  vain  .'     Should 
»i*iti<*r!  in  doing  this  ?     Shrmld  I   bo   fUFtitiod  in   letting  the  chain 


108  LADY  AUDLI  V's  SECJ 

■which  I  have  slow];.  'her,  link  by  link,  drop  at  this  point,  or 

must  I  go  on  adding  i'resh  Jinks  to  that  fatal  chain  until  the  last-  rivet 
drops  into  its  place  and  the  circle  is  complete  ?  I  think  and  believe 
that  {shall  never  see  my  friend's  face  again  ;  and  that  no. exertion  of 
mine  can  ever  be  of  any  benefit  to  him.  In  plainer,  crueller  words  I 
believe  him  to  be  dead.  Am  I  bound  to  discover  how  and  where  ho 
died?  or  being,  as  1  think,  on  the  road  to  that  discovery  shall  1  do  a 
wrong  to  the  memory  of  George  Talboys  by  turning  back,  or  stopping 
What  am  I  to  do  1  What  am  I  to  do?' 
rested  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  buried  his  face  in  14s  hands. 
The  one  purpose  which  had  slowly  grown  up  in  his  careless  nature  until 
enough,  to  work  a  change  in  that,  very  nature^ 
made  him  what  he  had  never  been  before — a  Christian,;  conscious  of  his 
own  weakness;  anxious  to  keep  to  the  strict  line  of  duty  ;  fearful 
to  swerve  from  the  conscientious  discharge  of  the  strange  task  that  had 
been  forced  upon  him  ;  and  reliant  on  a  stronger  hand  than  his  own  to 
point  the  way  which  he  was  to  go.  ,  Perhaps  he  littered  his  first  thor- 
oughly earnest  prayer  that  night,  seated  by  his  lonely  lireside,  thinking 
of  George  Talboys.  When  he  raised  his  head  from  that  long  and  silent 
reverie,  his  eyes  had  a  bright,  determined  glance,  and  every  feature  in 
his  face  seemed  to  wear  a  new  expression. 

"Justice  to  the  dead  first,"  he  said,  "  mercy  to  the  living  afterward." 

He  wheeled  his  easy  chair  to  the  fable,  trimmed  the  lamp,  and  settled 
himself  to  the  examination  of  the  books.  t 

He  took  the'ra  up  one  by  one.  and  looked  carefully  through  them, 
first  looking  at  the  page  on  which  the  name  of  the  owner  is  ordinarily 
written  ;  and  then  searching  for  any  scrap  of  paper  which  might  have 
been  left  within  the  leaves.  On  the  first  page  of  the  Eton  Latin  Gram- 
mar the  name  of  Master  Talboys.  was  written  in  a  prim,  scholastic  hand; 
the  IPre'nch  pamphlet  had  a  careless  G.  T.  scrawled  on  the  cover  in  pen- 
cil,'in  George's  big,  slovenly  caligraphy ;  the  Tom  Jones  had  evidently 
bought  at  a  book-stall,  and  bpfe  an  inscription,  dated^,  March  14th, 
1788,  setting  forth  that  the  work  was  a  tribute  of  respect  to  Mr.  Thomas 
Scrowton,  from  his  obedient  servant.  James  Anderley  ;  the  Don  Juan 
and -the  Testament  were  blank.  Robert  Audley  breathed  more  freely  ; 
he  had  arrived  at  the  last  but  one  of  the  books  without  any  result  what- 
ever, and  there  only  remained  the  fat  gilt-and-crimson-bound  volume  to 
be  examined  before  his  task  was  finished. 

It  was  au  annual  of  the  year  1845.  The  copper-plate  engravings  of 
lovely  ladies  who  had  flourished  in  that  day  were  yellow-  and  spotted 
with  mildew  ;  the  costumes  grotesque  and  outlandish ;  the  simpering 
beauties  laded  and  commonplace.  Even  the  little  clusters  of  verses  (in 
which  the  poet's  feeble  candle  shed  its  sickly  light  upon  the  obscurities 
of  the  artist's  meaning)  had  an  old-fashioned  twang;  like  music  on  a  lyre 
whose  strings  are  slackened  byxthe  danips  of  time.  Robert  Audley  did 
not  stop  to  read  any  of  these  mild  productions.  He  ran  rapidly  through 
the  leaves,  looking  for  any  scrap  of  writing  or  fragment  of  a  letter  which 
might  have  been  used  to  mark  a  place.     He  found  nothing  but  a  bright 


LADY  AUDLETS  SECRET.  109 

ring  of  golden  hair,  of  that  glittering  hue  which  ia  so  rarely  seen  ex 
upon  the  head  of  a  child— a 

tendril  of  a   vine;  arffi  was  vc\y  opposite  in  texture,  if  not  different  in 
hue,  to  the  soft,  smooth  trees  which  the  landlady  tnor  had  given 

to  George  Tal boys  after  his  wife's  death.     Robert   Audi 
his  examination  of  the  1  bis  yellow   lock  in  a  sheet  of 

letter  paper,  which  h8  sealed    with  his  slgi  Mid   laid,  aside,  with 

the  memorandum  about  G  Iter,        the  pig- 

eon-hole marked  important,     lie  was  going   to   rcpli  fat  annual 

among  the  other  books,  when  he  discovered  that  the  two  blank  l< 
at  the  beginning  were  stuck  together.     He  was  so  del 
cute  his  search  to  the  very  uttermost,  that  he  took  the   trouble   to  part 
these  leaves  with  (he  sharp  end  of  his  paper  knife';  and  he  was  n  warded 
for  his  pereeverence  by  finding  an  inscription  upon  one  of  them.     Tliis 
inscription  was  in  three  parts,  and  in  three  different  hands.     TJx 
paragraphias  dated  as  far  back   as  the  year  in   which  the  annua! 
been  published,  and  set  forth  that, the  'a  certain 

Miss  Elizabeth  Ann  Binee,  who  h"     obtained  tip    |  as  a 

reward  for  habits  of  order,  a;  rities  of  C 

ford  House  Seminary,  Torquay;     The  second  paragraph  w  I  live 

years  later,  and  was  in  the  handwriting  of  Miss  Bin*  o  pre- 

sented the  book    as   a   mark    of  undying  affection  and  unfadiil 

Rince  was  evidently  of  a  romantic  temperament)  to  her  beloved 
friend  Helen  Maldon.     The  thMrd  paragraph  was  dal  ber,  l^.~>o. 

and  was  in  the  hand  of  Helen  Maldmi,  who  gave    the   annual  to  <^ 
Talboys;  and  it  was  at  the  sight  of  this  third   paragraph   that,    Mr.  Ro- 
bert Audley's  face  changed   from   its  natural   hue   to   a  sickly,   h 
pallor. 

"  I  thought  it  would, be  so,"  said  the  young  man,  shutting  the  book 
with  a  weary  sigh.  "God  knows  I  was  prepared  for  the  worst,  and  the 
worst  has  come.  I  can  understand  all  now.  My  next  visit  must  be  to 
Southampton.     1  must  place  the  boy  in  better  hands." 


CHAPTER  XX. 


MKS.   PLOWSON. 


Amoko  the  packet  of  letters  which   Robert,  Audley   I  1  in 

George's  trunk,   there  was  one  labelled  with   thonameof  the  mi 
man's  father — the  fath<  r.  who  had  never  been   too  indulg 

ounger  ton,  and  who  had  gladly  availed  himself  of  tb  affor- 

ded by  George's  .imprudent  marriage  to  abandon  the  young  man  to  his 


HO  LADY    AUJ>J. 

Robert  Audley  had  nq*er  seen  Mr.  Harcouil  Talboys; 
but  George\>  careless  talk  of  hid  father  had  given  hus  friend  some  notion 
of  that  gentleman's  eharacto/.     He  had  written  to  Mr.  Talboys  imme- 

Jy  after  tin  saranoe  of  carefully  wording  his  1< 

which  vaguely  hinted '  :\i  the  writer's  fear  of  some  foul  play  in  the  i 
terious  business;  and  after  the  lapse  of  several  v;eeks,  he  had  received 
epistle,  iu  which  Mr.  Harcourt  Talbojs  expressly  declared 
that  he  had  washed  his  hands  of  all  responsibility  in  his  son  Geo 
affairs  upon  the  young  man's  wedding  day  ;  and  that  his  absurd  disap- 
pearance was  only  iu  charact  his  preposterous  marriage.  The 
writer  of  this  fatherly  letter  added  in  a  postscript  that  i f  Mr.  Gfeorge 
Talboys  had'  any  low  design  of  alarming  his  friends  by  this  pretended- 
disappearance,  and  thereby  playing  on  their  feedings  with  a  view  to  pe- 
cuniary advantage,  he  was  most  egregiously.  deceived  in  the  character 
of  those  persons  with  whom  he  had  to  deal. 

Rcioert  Audley  had  answered  this  letter  by  a  few  indignant  lines,  in- 
forming Mr.  Talboys  that., his  son  was  scarcely  likely. to  hide  himself 
for.  the  furtherance  of  any  deep-laid  design  on  the  pockets  of  his  relatives, 
as  he  had.  left  twenty  thousand  pounds  in  his  bankers'  hands  at  the  time 
of  his  disappearance.  After  dispatching  this  letter,  Robert  had  aban- 
doned all  thought  of  assistance  from  the  man  who,  in  t'he  natural  course 
of  things,  should  have  been  most  interested  in  George's  fate ;  but  now 
that  he  found  himself  advancing  every  day  some  step  nearer  to  the  end 
that  lay  so  darkly  before  him,  'his  mind  reverted  to  this  heartlessly-in- 
different Mr,  Harcourt  Talboys. 

"  I  will  run  into  Dorsetshire  after  I  leave  Southampton,"  he  said, 
"and  see  this  man.  If  lie  is  content  to  let  his  son's  fate  rest  a  dark  and 
cruel  :  to  all  who  knew  him — if  he  is  content  to  go.  down  to  his 

grave  uncertain- to  the  last  of  this  poor  fellow's  end — why  should  I  try 
to  unravel  the  tangled  skein,  to  fit  the  pieces  of  the  terrible  puzzle,  and 
gather  together  the  stray  fragments  which  when  collected  may  make 
such  a  hideous  whole  ?  I  will  go  to  him  and  lay  my  darkest  doubts 
freely  before  him.     It  will  be  for  him  to  say  what  I  am  to  do." 

Robert  Audley  started  by  an  early  express  for  Southampton.  The 
snow  lay  thick  and  white  upon  the  pleasaut  country  through  which  he 
went;  and  the  young  barrister  had  wrapped  himself  in  so  many  com- 
forters and  railway  rugs  as  to  appear  a  perambulating  mass  of  woolen 
goods,  rather  than  a  living  member' pf  a  learned  profession.  He  looked 
gloomily  out  of  the  misty  window,  opaque  with  the  breath  of  himself 
and  an  elderly  Indian  officer,  who  was  his  only  companion,  and  watched 
the  fleeting  landscape,  which  .had  a  certain  phantom-like  appearance  in 
its  shroud  of  snow.  He  wrapped  himself  in  the  vas£  folds  of  his  railway 
rug,  with  a  peevish  shiver,  and  felt  inclined  to  quarrel  with  the  destiny 
which  compelled  him  to  travel  by  all  early  train  upon  a  pitiless  winter's 
clay. 

"  Who  -would  have  thought  that  I  could  have  grown  so  fond  of  the 
fellow,"  he  muttered,  "or  feel  so  lonely  without  him?  I've  a  comfort- 
able little  fortune  in  the  three  per  cents,;  I'm  heir  presumptive  to  my 


\     ■ 

LADY  AUr>LLT'S  HI 

V  title;  and  I  know  of  a  cei\  little  girl   who,  as   I   think, 

do  her  Ijrest  to  make  me  happy  ;  buit  1  declare  thai 
up  all,  and  stand  penniless  in  the  world  to-morrow,  if  this 

actorily  cleared  away,  and  George  Talboys  could  stai 
my  sj< 

He  reached   Sun:'  between  eleven  and  twelve  o'clock,  and 

walk.'  the  platform;  with  the  snov^ drifting  In.  hj  .vard 

the  pier  and   the  lower  end  of  the  town.    'Tl  ;  St.  Micl 

Church  was  striking  twel  he,  quaint  old  square  in  which 

that  edifice  stan  |   d  his  way  through  the  narrow  sti 

ing  rj< 

Mr.  Maldon  had   established   his  slovenly  household  gods  in  one  of 
those,  dreary  thorou  ulative  builders  love,  to  raise  upon 

some  miserable  fragment   o;  round   hai  the   skirts  of  a 

prosperous  town.  s  Terrace  was  perhaps  one  of  the  most 

mal  blocks  of  building  that  was  ever" composed  of  brick  and  mi 
the  first   mason   plied   his   trowel   and  the  first  ,  his  plan. 

The  builder  who  had  speculated  in  the.  ten  dreary  eight-roomed  prison- 
houses  had  hung  himself  behind  the  parlor  door  of  i  ivern 
while  the  carca  yet  unfinished.  The  man  who  had  bought  the 
and  mortar  skeletons  had  gone,  through  the  Bankruptcy  Court 
while  the  paper-hangers  were  still  busy  in  Brigsorhe's  Terrace,  and  had 
whitewashed  his  ceilings  and  himself  eously.  Ill  luck  and  in- 
i  :ey  .clung  to  the  wretched  habitation.*.  The  bailiff  and  the  broker's 
man  were  as  well  known  as  the  butcher  and  the  baker  to  the  nojsy 
children  who  played  upon  the  waste  ground  in  front  of  the  parlor  win- 
dows. Solvent  tenants  were  disturbed  at  unhallowed  hours  by  the  noise 
of  ghostly  furniture  vans  creeping  stealthily  away  in  the  moonless  night. 
Insolvent  tenants  openly  defied  the  collector  of  the  water-rate  from 
their  ten-roomed  strongholds,  and  existed  for  weeks  without  any  visible 
means  of  procuring  that  necessary  fluid. 

liobert  Audlcy  looked  about  him  with  a  shudder  as  he  turned  from 
the  water-side  into  this  poverty-stricken  locality.  ,V  child's  funeral  was 
leaving  one  of  1  as  he  approached,  and  he  thought  with  a  thrill 

of  horror  that  if  the  little  coffin  had  held  George's  son,  he  would  have 
been  in  some  m  ponsible  for  the  boy's  death. 

"The  poor  child  shall  not  sleep  another  night  in  this  wretched  h<> 
he  thought,  as  he  knocked  at  the  door  of  Mr.  Maldon's  house.     "He  is 
the  legacy  of  my  lost  friend,  and  it  shall  be   my  business  to  secure  his 
safet;  :    • 

A  slipshod   servant  girl  opened   the  door  and  looked  at  Mr.  Aud 
rather  suspiciously  as  she  asked  him,  very  much  through  her  i;  i  ie,  what 
he  pleased  to  want.     The  door  of  the  little  sHting-room  was  ajar,  and 
Robert  could   hear  the  clattering  of  knives  and  forks  and  tlu>  chil 

George  prattling  gayly.     He  told  the  servant  thai  be  had 
come  Ddoo,   that  he  want--  \  s,  find  thi 

would  announce  himself;  and  walking  past  her,  without  furl 
mony  he  opened  tho  door  of  the  parlor.     The  girl  stared  at  him  aghast 


1J2  .00  LADYAUDLEYS  SECRET. 

as  he  did  this;  and  as  if  struck  by  some  sudden_and  teni':''  conviction, 
threw  her  apron  over  her  head  and  ran  out  "into  the  enow.  She  darted 
across  the  waste  ground,  plunged  into  a  narrow  alley,  and  never  drew 
breath  till  she  found  herself  upon  the  threshold  of  a  certain  tavern  called 
the  Coach  and  Horses,  and  much  affected  by  Mr.  Maiden.  The  lieuten- 
ant's faithful  retainer  had  taken  Robert  Audley  for  some  new  and  de- 
termined collector  of  poor's  rates — rejecting  that  gentleman's  account  of 
himself  as  an  artful  fiction  devised  far  thodestruction  of  parochial  default- 
ers— and  had  hurried  off  to  give  her  master  timely  warning  of  the 
y's  approach. 
When  Robert  entered  the  sitting-room  he  was  surprised  to  find  little 
George  seated  opposite  to  a  woman  who  was  doing  the  honors  of  a 
shabby  repast,  spread  upon  a  dirty  table-cloth,  and  flanked  by  a  pewtoi- 
beer  measure.  The  woman  rose  as  Robert  entered,  and  curtsied  very 
humbly  to  the  young  barrister.  She  looked  about  fifty  years  of  age, 
and  was  dressed  in  rusty  widoVs  weeds.  Her  complexion  was  insipidly 
fair,  and  the  two  smooth  bands  of  hair  beneath  her  cap  were  of  that  sun- 
less flaxen  hue  which  generally  accompanies  pink  cheeks  and  white  eye- 
lashes. She  had  been  a  rustic  beauty  perhaps  in  her  time,  but  her 
features,  although  tolerably  regular  in  their  shape,  had  a  meau,  pinched 
look,  as  if  they  had  been  made  too  small  for  her  face.  This  defect  was 
peculiarly  noticeable  in  her  mouth,  which  was  an  obvious  misfit  for  the 
set  of  teeth  it  contained.  She  smiled  as-  she  curtsied  to  Mr.  Rfrbert. 
Audley,  and  her  smile,  which  laid  bare  the  freater  part  of  tthis  set  of 
squf  re,  hungry-looking  teeth,  by  no  means  added  to  the  beauty  of  her 
personal  appearance. 

"  Mr.  Maldon  is  not  at  home,  sir,"  she  said,  with  insinuating  civility ; 

1  "  but  if  it's  for  the  water-rate,  he  requested  me  to  say  that " 

She  Was  interrupted  by  little  George  Talboys,  who  scrambled  down 
from  the  high  chair  upon  which  he  had  been  perched,  and  ran  to  Robert 
Audley. 

"  I  know  you,"  he  said  ;  "  you  came  to  Ventnor  with  the  big  g'entle- 
man,  and  you  came  here  once,  and  you  gave  me  some  money,  and  1  gave 
it  to  gran'pa  to  take  care  of,  and  gran'pa  kept  it,  and  he  always  does." 

Robert  Audley  took  the  boy  in  his  arms,  and  carried  him  to  a  little 
table  in  the  window. 

"Stand  there,  Georgey,"  he  said;  "I  wan't  to  have  a  good  look  at 
you." 

He  turned  the  boy's  face  to  the  light,  and  pushed  the  brown  curls  off 
his  forehead  with  both  hands. , 

"  You're  growing  more  like  your  father  every  day,  Georgey  ;  and 
you're  growing  quite  a  man,  too,"  he  said  ;  "would  you  like  to  go  to 
school  V 

"Oh,  yes,  please,  I  should  like  it  very  much,"  the  boy  answered,  ea- 
gerly. "I  went  to^chool  at  Miss  Pevins's  once — day-school,  you  know 
— round  the  corner  in  the  next  street ;  but  I  caught  the  measles,  and 
gran'pa  wouldn't  let  me  go  any  more,  for  fear  I  should  catch  the  meas- 
les again;  and  gran'pa  won't  let  me  play  with  the  little  boys  in  the 


LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET.  110 

street,  because  they're  rude  boys;  he  said  blackguard  boys;  but  he  said 
I  mustti'6  say  blackguard  boys,  because  it's  naughty.  Tie  says  damn 
and  devil,  but  !  le  may  because  he's  old.     I  shall  say  damn  and 

devil  when  I'm  oM  ;  and  I  should  like  to  go  to  school,  please,  and  I  can 
gq,  to-day,  if  you  like;.  Mrs.  Plowson  will  get  my  frocks  ready,  won't 
you,  Mrs.  Plowson  ?" 

"  Certainly,  Master  Georgey,  if  your  grandpapa  Wishes  it,  the  woman 
ansviv   '  ing  rather  uneasily  at  Mr.  Robert  Audlcy. 

"'•  What  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  this  woman  ?"  thought  Robert  as 
he  tun  .  the  boy  to  the  fair-haired  widow,  who.  was  edging  herself 

slowly  toward  the  table  upon  which  little  George  Talboys  stood  talking 
to  his  guardian.  "Does  she  still  take  me  for  a  tax-collector  with  inim- 
ical intentions  toward  these  wretched  goods  and  chattels  ;  or  can  the 
cause  other  fidgety  manner  li*'  deeper  still  ?  That's  scarcely  likely, 
though  ;  for  whatever  secrets  Lieutenant  Maldon  may  have,  it's  not 
very  probable  that  this  woman  has  any  knowledge  of  them." 

Mrs.  Plowson  had  edged  herself  close  to  the  little  table  by  this  time, 
and  was  making  a  stealthy  descent  upon  the  boy,  when  Robert  turned 
sharply  round. 

"  What  aro  you  going  to  do  with  the  child?"  he  said. 

<:  I  was  only  going  to  take  him  away  to  wash  his  pretty  face,  sir,  and 
smooth Tiis  hair,''  answered  the  woman,  in  the  same  insinuating  tone  in 
which  she  had  spoken  of  the  water-rate.  "  You  don't  see  him  to  any 
advantage,  sir,  while  his  precious  face  is  dirty.  I  won't  be  fivo  minutes 
making  him  as  neat  as  a  new  pin." 

She  had  her  long  thin  arms  about  the  boy  as  she  spoke,  and  she  was 
evidently  going  to  carry  him  off  bodily,  when  Robert  stopped  her.  * 

"  I'd  rather  see  him  as  he  is,  thank  you,"  he  said.  "  My  time  in 
Southampton  isn't  very  long,  and  I  want  to  hear  all  that  the  little  man 
can  tell  me." 

The  little  man  crept  closer  to  Robert,  and  looked  confidingly  into  the 
barrister's  grey  eyes. 

"  I  like  you  very  much,"  he  said.  "  I  was  frightened  of  you  when 
you  came  before,  because  I  was  shy.  I  am  not  shy  now— I'm  nearly 
six  years  old." 

Robert  patted  the  boy's  head  encouragingly,  but  he  was  not  looking 
at  little  George ;  he  was  watching  the  fair-haired  widow,  wbo  had  moved 
to  the  window,  and  was  looking  out  at  the  patch  of  waste  ground. 

"  You're  rather  fidgety  about  some  one,  ma'am,  I'm  afraid,"  said 
Robert. 

She  colored  violently  as  the  barrister  made  this  remark,  and  answered 
him  in  a  confused  manner. 

"I  was  looking  for  Mr.  Maldon,  sir,"  she  said  ;  "he'i I  be  so  disap- 
pointed if  he  doesn't  sec  yon." 

"  You  know  who  I  am  then  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  but " 

Th  ■  boy  interrupted  her  by  dragging  a  littlo  jewelled  watch  from  hit 
bosom  ano  >  Robert. 


114  LADY  AtJMiEY'S  SECRET. 

"  This  is  the  watch  the  pretty  lady  gave  me,"  lis  said.  "  I've  got •  i C 
now — but  I  haven't  had  it  Jong,  because  the  jeweller  who  cleans  it  is  an 
idle  man,  gran'pa  say:;,  and  always  keeps  it  such  a  long  time;  and 
gran'pa  says  it  will  have  to  be  cleaned  again,  because  of  the  taxes.  He 
always  takes  it  to  be  cleaned  when  there's  taxes--bi\the  says,  if  ho  were 
to  lose  it,  the  pretty  lady  would  give  me  another.  Do  you  know  the 
pretty  lady  .■'' 

"No,  Georgey,  but  tell  me  all  about  her.". 

Mrs.  Plowson  made  another  descent  upon  the  boy.  She  was  armed 
with  a  pocket-handkerchief  this  time,  and  displayed  great  anxiety  about 
the  state  of  little  George's  nose,  but  Robert  warded  off  the  dreaded 
weapon,  and  drew  the  child  away  from  his  tormentor. 

"The  boy  will  do  "very  well,  ma'am,"  he  said,  "  if  you'll  be  good 
enough  to  let  him  alone  for  five  minutes.  Now,  Geor,  ey,  suppose  you 
sit  on  my  knee,  and  tell  me  all  about  the.  pretty  lady." 

The  child  clambered  from  the  table  on  to  Mr.  Audley's  knees,  assist- 
ing his  descent  by  a  very  unceremonious  manipulation  of  his  guardian's 
coat  collar. 

"I'll  tell  you  all  about  the  pretty  lady,"  he  said,  "  because  I  like  you 
very  much.  Gran'pa  told  me  not  to  tell  anybody,  but  I'll  tell  you,  you 
know,  because  I  like  you,  and  because  you're  going  to  take  me  to  school. 
The  pretty  lady  came  here  one  night— long  ago — oh,  so  long  ago,"  said 
the  boy,  shaking  his  head,  with  a  face  whose  solemnity  was  expressive  of 
some  prodigious  lapse  of  time.  "  She  came  when  I  was  not  nearly  so  big 
as  I  am  now — and  sJie  came  at  night — after  I'd  gone  to  bed,  and  she 
came  up  into  my  room,  and  sat  upon  the  bed,  and  cried — and  she  left 

pT.he  watch  under  my  pillow,  and  ,she Why  do  you  make  faces  at  me 

Mrs.  Plowson'?     I. may  tell   this  gentleman,"  Georgey  added,  suddenly 
addressing  the  widow,  who  was  standing  behind  Robert's  shoulder. 

Mrs.  Plowson  mumbled  some  confused  apology,  to  the  effect  that  she 
was  afraid  Master  George  was  troublesome. 

"Suppose  you  wait  till  I  say  so,  ma'am,  before  you  stop  the  little 
fellow's  mouth,"  said  Robert  Audley,  sharply .  UA.  suspicious  person 
might  think  from  your  manner,  that  Mr.  Maldon  and  you  had  some  con- 
spiracy between  you,  and  that  you  were  afraid  of  what  the  boy's  talk 
may  let  slip." 

He  rose  from  his  chair,  and  looked  full  at  Mrs.  Plowson  as  he  said 
this.  The  fair-haired  widow's  face  was  as  white  as  her  cap  when  she 
tried  to  answer  him,  and  her  pale  lips  were  so  dry  that  she  was  obliged 
to  wet  them  with  her  tongue  before  the  words  would  come. 

The  little  boy  relieved  her  embarrassment. 

"  Don't  be  cross  to  Mrs.  Plowson,"  he  said.  ■  "Mrs.  Plowson  is  very 
kind  to  me.     Mrs.  Plowson  is   Matilda's  mother.     You  don't  know 

Matilda.     Poor  Matilda  was  always  crying  ;  she  was  ill,  she " 

The  boy  was  stopped  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  Mr.  Maldon,  who 
stood  on  the  threshold  of  the  parlor  door  staring  at  Robert  Audley  with 
a  half-drunken,  half-terrified  aspect,  scarcely  consistant  with  the  dignity 
of  a  retired  naval  officer.      The  servant  girl,  breathless  and  panting^ 


L»U)Y 


MIM^Y'S  SBCR  115 


stood  close  behind  fier  master.     Early  in  the  clay  though  it  was,  the  old 
man's  speech  was  thick  and  confused,  as  he  add;  fiercely  to 

Mrs.  Plowson. 

■   ^  ou're  a  prett'  creature  to  call  yourself 'sensible  woman  !"  he  said. 

'•  Why  don't   you  take  th'  chile  'way,  ex  wash  's  face?     D'yer  want  to 

ilie ?     D'j  er  want  to  'stroy  me?     Take  bh'  chile. 'way  !     Mr,  Aud- 

rir,  I'm  ver'  glad  to  see  yer;  ver'  'appy  to  er  in  m'  hurnbl' 

i,"  the  old  man  added,   with  tipsy  politeness,  dropping  into  a  chair 

us  he    pi  Ice,  and  trying  to- look  steadily  at  his  unexpected  visitor. 

."Whatever  this  man's  secret'  '  Kobert,  as  Mrs.  Plow- 

son  hustled  little  George  Talboys  out  ol  to,  ''that  woman  has  no 

unimportant  share  of  them.     Whatever  the  mystery  may  be,  it  grows 
.•  and   thicker  at  every   i  top  ;  but  I  try  in  vain  to  draw  back  or  to 
stop  short  upon  the  road,  for  a  stronger  hand  than  my  own  is  pointing 
the  way  to  my  lost  friend's  uukno\ 


CHAPTER.  XXI. 

LITTLE  GEORGEV  LEAVES  HIS  OLD  HOME. 

"  I  AM  going  to  take  your  grandson  away  with  me,  Mr.  Maldon,"  Ro- 
bert said,  gravely,  as  Mrs.  Plowson  retired  with  her  young  charge. 

The  old  man's  drunken  imbecility  was  slowly  clearing  away  like  the 
heavy  mists  of  a  London  fog ;  through  which  the  feeble  sunshine  struggles 
dimly  to  appear.  The  very  uncertain  radiance  of  Lieutenant  Maldon's 
intellect  took  a  considerable  time  in  piercing  the  hazy  vapors  of 
rum-and- water ;  but  the  flickering  light  at  last  faintly  glimmered 
athwart  the  clouds,  and  the  old  man  screwed  his  poor  wits  to  the  stick- 
ing-point. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  feebly  ;  "  take  the  boy  away  from  his  poor  old 
grandfather;  I  always  thought  so." 

"  You  always  thought  that  I  should  take  him  away  ?"  asked  Robert, 
scrutinizing  the  half  drunken  countenance  v.ith  a  searching  glance. 
"  Why  did  you  think  so,  Mr.   Maldon?" 

The  intoxication  got  the  better  of  the  light,  of  sobriety  for  a 

moment,  and  the  lieutenant,  answered  vaguely  : 

"Thought. so — 'cause  I  thought  so." 

Meeting  the  young  banister's  impatient  frown,  he  made  another  effort, 
he  light  glimmered  again. 

'•  I  >oonus« •  I  thought  yo  '  r  would  fetch  "m  awa 

"  When  I  was  la- 1  in  this  h  .  Maldon,  you  told  me  that  George 

Talboys  had  sailed  for  Austra 


116  LADY   DUDLEY  a  SECRET. 

':  Yes,  yes — I  know,  I  know,"  the  old  man  answered,  confusedly, 
shuffling  his  scanty  limp  gray  hairs  with  his  two  wandering  hands — "  I 
know,  but  he  might  have  come  back — mightn't  he?  He  was  restless, 
and — and — queer  in  his  mind,  perhaps,  sometimes.  He  might  have 
come  back." 

He  repeated  this  two  or  three  times  in  feeble,  muttering  tones  ;  grop- 
ing about  on  the  littered  mantle-piece  for  a  dirty-looking;  clay  pipe,  and 
filling  and  lighting  it  with  hands  that  trembled  violently. 

Robert  Audley  watched  those  poor,  withered,  tremulous  fingers  drop- 
ping shreds  of  tobacco  upon  the  hearth-rug,  and  scarcely  able  to  kindle 
a  lucifer  for  their  unsteadiness.  Then  walking  once  or  twice  up  and 
down  the  little  room,  he  left  the  old  man  to  take  a  few  puffs  from  the 
great  consoler. 

Presently  he  turned  suddenly  upon  the  half-pay  lieutenant  with  a 
dark  solemnity  in  his  handsome  face. 

"Mr.  Maldon,"  he  said,  slowly,  watching  the  effect  of  every  syllable 
as  he  spoke,  "  George  Talboys  never  salied  for  Australia — that  1  know. 
More  than  this,  he  never  came  to  Southampton ;  and  the  lie  you  told 
me  on  the  8th  of  last  Septemt'^r  was  dictated  to  you  by  the  telegraphic 
message  which  you  received  on  that  day." 

The  dirty  clay  pipe  dropped  from  the  tremulous  hand,  and  shivered 
against  the  iron  fender,  but  the  old .  man  made  no  effort  to  find  a  fresh 
one ;  he  sat  trembling  in  every  limb,  and  looking,  Heaven  knows  how 
piteously,  at  Robert  Audley. 

"  The  lie  was  dictated  to  you,  and  you  repeated  your  lesson.  But 
you  no  more  saw  George  Talboys  here  on  the  7th  of  September  than  I 
see  him  in  this  room  now.  You  thought  you  had  burnt  the  telegraphic 
message,  but  you  had  only  burnt  a  part  of  it — the  remainder  is  in  my 
possession." 

Lieutenant  Maldon  was  cmite  sober  now. 

"  What  have  I  done  ?-"  he  murmured,  helplessly.  "  Oh,  my  God  ! 
what  have  I  done  ?" 

l,At  two  o'clock  on  the  7th  of  September  last,"  continued  the  pitiless, 
accusing  voice,  "  George  Talboys  was  seen  alive  and  well  at  a  house  in 
Essex." 

Robert  paused  to  see  the  effect  of  these  words.  They  had  produced 
no  change  in  the  old  man.  He  still  sat  trembling  from  head  to  foot, 
and  staring  with  the  fixed  and  stolid  gaze  of  some  helpless  wretch  whose 
every  sense  is  gradually  becoming  numbed  by  terror. 

"At  two  o'clock  on  that  day,"  repeated  Robert  Audley,  "  my  poor 

friend  was  seen  alive  and  well  at ,  at  the  house  of  which  I  speak. 

From  that  hour  to  this  I  have  never  been  able  to  hear  that  he  ha3  been 
seen  by  any  living  creature.  I  have  taken  such  steps  as  must  have 
resulted  in  procuring  the  information  of  his  whereabouts,  were  he  alive. 
I  have  done  this  patieatly  and  carefully — at  first,  even  hopefully.  Now 
I  know  that  he  is  dead. 

Robert  Audley  had  been  prepared  to  witness  some  considerable  agi- 
tation hi  the  ©Id  man's  manner,  but  he  was  not  prepared  for  the  terrible 


/  LADY  AL'DI.KY'S  sKOKET.  H*] 

anguish-,  the  ghastly  terror,  which  convulsed  Mr.  Maldon's  haggard  face 
■  uttered  tbe  last  v 
"No,  no,  no,  no,"  reiterated  the  lieutenant,  in  a  shrill,  half  screaming 

voice  ;  "  no,  no  !     For  God's  sake,  don't  say  that!  don't  think  it don't 

/'  think   ft — don't  let. me  dream,  of  it!     Not  dead — any  thing  but 
!     Hiding  away,  perhaps — bribed  to  keep  out  of  the  way,  pe?. 
but  not  dead— not  dead — noi 
He  cried  these  words  aloud,  like  one  beside  himself;. beating  his  hands 
11  his  gray  head,  and  rocking  backward  and  forward  in  his  chair.     His 
feeble  han  bled  no  longer — they  were  strengthened  by  some  con- 

vulsive force  that  gave  them  a  new  power. 

"I  believe,''  said  Robert,  in  the  same  solemn,  relentless  voice,  "that 
my  friend  never  left  Essex;  and  1  believe  that  he  died  on  the  7th  of 
September  last." 

The  wretched  old  man,  still  beating  his  hands  among  his  thin  cray 
hair,  slid  from  his  chair  to  the  ground,  and  grovelled  at  Robert's  feet. 
"  Oh  !  no,  no — for  God's  sake,  no  !'*  be  shrieked  hoarsely.     "  No  !  you 
know  what  you  say — you  don't  know  what  you  ask   me   to   think 
— you  don't  know  what  your  words  mean!" 

"  I  know  their  weight  and  value  only  too  well — as  well  as  I  see  vou 
do,  Mr,  Maldon.     God  help  us  !" 

'h.  what  am  I  doing?  what  am  I  doing1?"  muttered   the  old  mau 
feebi  raising  himself  from   the  ground  with  an  effort,  he  drew 

himself  to  his  full  height,  and  said,  in  a  manner  which  was  new  to  him 
and  which  was  not  without  a  certain  dignity  of  its  own — that  dignity 
which  must  always  be  attached  to  unutterable  misery,  in  whatever  form 
it  may  appear — he  said,  gravely  : — 

"  You  have  no  right  to  come  here  and  terrify  a  man  who  has  been 
drinking,  aud  who  is  not  quite  himself.  You  have  no  right  to  do  it 
Audley.  Even  the — the  officer,  sir,  who — who — "  He  did  not 
stammer,  but'his  lips  trembled  so  violently  that  his  words  seemed  to  b*e 
shaken  into  pieces  by  their  motion.  '-The  officer,  I  repeat,  sir.  who  ar- 
rests a — a  thief,  or  a — "     He  stopped  to  wipe  his  lips,  and  to  still  them 

if  he  could  by  i  h  he  could  not.     "  A  thief  or  a  murderer " 

His  i  j  y  upon  the  last  word,  and  .it  was  onlv  by 

the  motion  of th^s-  trembling  lips  that  Robert  knew  what  he  meant. 
"Gives  him  warning,  sir.  fair  that  he  nay  say   nothing  which 

shall  ;• — or — otl  e.     The — the — law  sir    has 

liminal.     Hut  you,  sir,  you 

a  time  when — when con- 

iran  to  my  !    tell  you,  are  sober 

yself — you  take the 

unity  to — terrify  me — and  it  is  noi  right,  sir — it  is " 

Wk  inarticulate gasps,  which 

seemed  to  choke  hi.  iir,  he  dropped  his  face  upon 

'erhaps  in  all  the  dismal  scenes  of  domestic 

y  which  had  b<  and   dreary  houses — in  all 

the  petty  mia  une#,  the  cruel  sorrows,  tbt  better  di»- 


118  LADY  AUDLBY'3  SECRET, 

graces  which  own; poverty  for  the 

been  such  a' scene  as  this.  An  old  man  hiding  his  face  from  the  light  of 
day,  and  sobbing  aloud  in  his.  wretchedness.  Robert,  Audley  contem- 
plated the  painful  picture  with  a  ho  ttymg  face. 

"  If  I  had  known  thi;,"  he  thought,  "1  might  have  spared  him.  It 
would  haVe  been  bettor,  perhaps,  to  have  spared  him."' 

The  shabby  room,. the  dirt,  the  confusion,  the  figure  of  the  old  man, 
with  his  gray*  head  upon  the  soiled  table-cloth,  amid  the  muddled  debris 
of  a  wretched  dinner,  grew  blurred  before  the  sight  of  llobert  Audley 
as  he  thought  of  another  man,  as  old  as  this  one,  but,  ah,  how  widely 
different  in  every  other  quality  !  who  might  ccme  by-and-by  to  feel  the 
same,  or  even  a  worse  anguish  and  to  shed,  perhaps,  yet  bitterer  tears. 
The  moment  in  which  the  tears  rose  to  his  eyes  and  dimmed  the  piteous 
scene  before  him,  was  long  enough  to  take  him  back  to  Essex,  and  to 
show  him  the  image    f  his  uncle,  strickeu  by  agony  and  shame. 

"Why  do  I  go, on  with  this?"  he  thought;  '"how  pitiless  I  am.  a*id 
how  relentlessly  I  am  carried  on.  It  is  not  myself;  it  is  the  hand  which 
is  beckoning  me  further  and  further  upon  the  dark  road  whose  end  I  dare 
not  dream  of." 

He  thought  this,  and  a  hundred  times  more  than  this,  while  the  old 
man  sat  with  his  face  still  hidden,  wrestling  with  his  anguish,-  but  with- 
out power  to  keep  it  down. 

"Mr.  Maldon,"  Robert  Audley  said,  after  a  pause,  "  I  do  not  ask  you  to 
forgive  me  for  what  I  have  brought  upon  you,  for  the  feeling  is  strong  with- 
in me  that  it  must  have  come  to  you  sooner  or  later — if  not  through  me, 
through  some  one  else.  There  are — : — "  He  stopped  for  a  moment, 
hesitating.  The  sobbing  did  not  cease ;  it  was  sometimes  low,'  some- 
times loud,  bursting  out  with  fresh  violence,  or  dying  away  for  an  instant, 
but  never  ceasing.  "There  are  some  things  which,  as  people  say, cannot  be 
hidden.  I  think  there  is  truth  in  that  common  saying  which  had  its  origin 
in  that  old  worldly  wisdom  which  people  gathered  from  experience  and 
not  from  books.  If — if  I  were  content  to  let  my  friend  rest  in  his  hid- 
den grave,  it  is  but  likely  that  some  stranger,  who  had  never  heard  the 
name  of  George  Talbovs.  might  fall  by  the  remotest  accident  upon  the 
secret  of  his  death.  Tu-:uorrow,  perhaps  ;  or  ten  years  hence;  or  in  an- 
other generation,  when  the — the  hand  that  wronged  him  is  as  cold  as  his 
own.  If  I  could  let  the  matter  rest ;  if — if  I  could  leave  England  for- 
ever, and  purposely  fly  from  the  possibility  of  ever  coming  across  an- 
other clue  to  the  secret,  I  would  do  it — 1  would  gladly,  thankfully  do  it 
— but  I  cannot/  A  hand  which  is  stronger  than  my  own  beckons  me  on. 
I  wish  to  take  no  base  advantage  of  you,  less  than  of  all  other  people  ;  but 
I  must  go  on  ;  I  must  go  on.  If  there  is  any  warning  you  would  give  to 
any  one,  give  it.  If  the  secret  toward  which  I  am  travelling 'day  by  day, 
hour  by  hour,  involves  any  one  in  whom  you  have  an  interest,  let  that 
person  fly  before  I  come  to  the  end.  Let  them  leave  this  country  ;  let 
them  leave  all  who  know  them — all  whose  peace  their  wickedness  has 
endangered  ;  let  them  go  away — they  shall  not  be  pursued.  But  if  they 
slight  your  warning — if  they  try  to  hold  their  present  position  in  defiance 


1ADX  AUMJ-Y'S  SECRET.  119 

hat  it  will  be  in  your  power  to  tell  them — let  them  beware  of  me,- 
hen  the  hour  comes,  I  awear.that  I  will  not  spare  them." 

man  looked  up  for  the  first  time,  and  wiped  his  wrinkled  face 
upon  a  ragged  silk  handkerchief. 

"  1  declare  to  yon  that  I  do  not  understand  you,"  he  said      "  I  solemn- 
ly declare  to  you  that  I,  cannot  understand ;  and  I  do  not  believe 
I,"    • 
"J  would  gi\  sua  of  my  own  Jife  if  I  could  see  him  alive,"  an- 

"I  am  sony  ftir  you,  Mr.  Maldon — I  am 
for  all 

"1  do  not  believe  that  my  son-in-Jaw  is  dead,"  said  the  lieutenant ;  <:I 

id."  •    • 
He  endes  B  I  manner  to  show  to  Robert  Audley  that  his 

■wild  outburst  of  anguish  had  been  caused  by   his  grief  for  the  loss  of 
George;  but  the  pretence  was  miserably  shallow. 

i.  Plowson  re-entered  the  room,  leading  little  Georgey,  whose  face 
shone  with  that  brilliant  polish  which  yellow  soap  and  friction  can  pro- 
duce upon  the  human  countenance. 

"Dear  heart  alive!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Plow.-on,  "  what  has  the  poor  old 
gent;.  a  taking  on  about1?.    We  could  hear  him  in  the  pa 

Bobbin'  awful.'' 

Blttle  George  crept  up  to  his  grandfather,  and  smoothed  the  wet  and 
wrinkled  face  with  his  pudgy  hai 

11  1  >...:':  ( rr.  gran'pa,'!  he  said,  "  dorr^  cry.     You  shall  have  my  watch 
to  be  cleared,  and  the. kind  jeweller  shall    lend    you   the   mom 
the  :  axman  while  hi  —I  don  ;,  mind,  gran'pa.     L< 

to  the  jeweller — the  jeweller  in    High   Street,    you    know,    with   golden 
balls    painted   upon    his    doo  >w   that   he  comes   from 

— Lomharshire,"  said   the  boy,  making  a  dash  at  the  name.     Come, 

The  lift;.  took  the  jewelled  toy  from  his  bosom  and  made  for 

the  door,  ;  being  possessed  of  a  talisman  which  he  had  seen  so 

often  ful. 

"There  are  wolves  at  Southampton,"  he  said,  with  rather  a  trim 
ant  nod  to  Robert  Audley.  "  My  gran'pa  says  when  he  takes  my  v 
that  h  rolf  from  the  door. '  Are  there  woli 

you  live?" 

The  young  barrusl  hild's  question,  but  stopped 

him  a  bis  grandfather  toward  the  door. 

"  Your  grandpapa  does  not  want  the  watch  to-day,  Georgey,"  he  said 
grave 

"  v'  sorry   then?"  .  .naively;  "  when  he  wants 

forehead  so" — the  boy 
ith  his  small    lisfs — - ■'  and   says   that   she — the 
.  I  think  he  means — uses  him  vi  .   and   that  he 

keep  the  wolf  from  the  then!    ay, 'Gran'pa,  have  the  wi 

and  then  H  I  Oh,  m\  \ 

how  cau  I  rob  my  blessed  a  .  but  not  I  • 


\20  LADY  AUDREY'S  SECRET. 

— not  loud,  you  know  ;  only  tears  running  down  his  poor  cheeks,  not  so 
that  you  could  hear  him  in  the  pa? 

"Painful  as  the  child's  prattle  was  to  Robert  Audley,  jjfc  sec  med  a  re- 
lief to  the  old  man.  "  He  did  not  hear  .the  boy's  talk,  but  walk" 
three  times  up  and  down  the  little  room  and  smoothed  his  rumpled  hair 
and  suffered  his  cravat  to  be  arranged  by   Mrs.  Plowson,  who  seemed 
very  anxious  to  find  out  the  cause  of  his  agitation. 

"  Poor  dear  old  gentleman,"  she  said,  looking  at  Robert-  "What  has 
happened  to  upset  him  so  V 

"  His  son-in-law  is  dead,"  answered  Mr.  Audley.  fixing  his  eyes  upon 
Mrs.  Plowson's  sympathetic  face.  "  lie  died  within  a  year  and  a  half 
after  the  death  of  Helen  Talboys.  who  .ics  buried  in  Ventnor  church- 
yard." 

The  face  into  which  he  was  looking  changed  very  slightly,  but  the 
eyes  that  had  been  looking  at  his  shifted  away  as  he  spoke,  and 
Plowson  was  obliged  to  moisten  her  white  lips  with  her  tongue  before 
she  answered  him. 

"  Poor  Mr.  Talboys  dead  !"  she  said  ;  "  that  is  bad  news  indeed,  sir." 

Little  George  looked  wistfully  up  at  his  guardian's  face  as  this  was 
said. 

"  Who's  dead  V  he  said.  "  George  Talboys  is  my  name.  Who's 
dead?"  ,  •  % 

"Another  person  whose  name  is  Talboys,  Georgey." 

"  Poor  person  !     Will  he  go^to  the  pit-hole?" 

The  boy  had  that  common  notion  of  death  which  is  generally  imparted 
to  children  by  their  wise  elders,  and  which  always  leads  the  infant  mind 
to  the  open  grave,  and  rarely  carries  it  any  higher. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him  put  in  the  pit-hole,"  Georgey  remarked,  after 
a  pause.  He  had  attended  several  infant  funerals  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  was  considered  valuable  as  a  mourner  on  account  of  his  interesting 
appearance.  He  had  come,  therefore,  to  look  upon  the  ceremony  of 
interment  as  a  solemn  festivity  ;  in  which  cake  and  wine  and  a  carriage 
drive  were  the  leading  features. 

"You  have  no  objection  to  my  taking  Georgey  away  with  me,  Mr. 
Maldon  ?•"  asked  Robert  Audley. 

The  old  man's  agitation  had  very  much  subsided  by  this  time.  He 
had  found  another  pipe  stuck  behind  the  tawdry  frame  of  the  looking- 
glass,  and  was  trying  to  light  it  with  a  bit  of  twisted  newspaper. 

"  You  do  not  object,  Mr,  Maldon  ?" 

"  No,  sir — 'no,  sir ;  you  are  his  guardian,  and  you  have  a  right  to  take 
him  where  you  please.  He  has  been  a  very  great  comfort  to  me  in  my 
lonely  old  age,  but  I  have  been  prepared  to  lose  him.  .1 — I — may  not 
have  always  done  my  duty  to  him,  sir.  in — in  the  way  of  schooling  and 
— and  boots.  The  number  of  boots  which  boys  of  his  age  wear  out,  sir, 
is  not  easily  realized  by  the  mind  of  a  young  man  like  yourself;  he  has 
been  kept  away  from  school,  perhaps,  sometimes,  and  has  occasionally 
worn  shabby  boots  when  our  funds  have  got  low  ;  but  he  has  not  been 
unkindly  fcrwttod:     No-,  sir ;  if  you  wot <»  to  question  him  for  a  week,  I 


LADY   AUDLEY'S  SECRET.  121 

bis  poor  old  grandfather  ev< 
to  him." 
Upon  this,  Georgey,  perceiving  the  distress  of  his  old 
up  a  terrible  howl,  and  that  he  would  I  iru. 

Mr.  Malddn,"  said   Robert  Audley,  with  a  tone  'wl 

re  that  1  could  evei  i  think  it  i 

thought  it  then.     I  cati  only  ill".     1  feel 

it  ray  duty  to  take  the  child  away;  but  I  shall  take  him  straight  from 
your  house  to  the  best  school  in  Southampton ;  andlgive  you  my  ; 
that  I  will  extort  nothing  from  his  innocfent  simplicity  which  can  in  any 
manner — 1  me •!  tid,  breaking  off  abruptly,  "1  mean  this.     1  will 

not  .seek  I  ue  step  n<  -ugh  him.     I — 1  an 

md  I  do  noi  think  that  the  most  accomplished  < 
tive  would  like  from  a  ehi 

The  old  Man  did  not  ai  sw  r ;  he  sat  with  his  face  shaded  bj  his  ! 

tinguished  pip  i  the  listless  lii 

"Take  the  boy.  away,  Mrs;  Plowson,".Ke said,  aft*     .  take 

and  put  his  things  on.  Ding  with  Mr.   \ 

"  Which  I  do  say  i hat  it's  no    kind  of  the  gentlem.. 
grandpas  pet  away,"  Mrs.  Flow  son  exclaimed,  suddenly,  with  re 
ful  indignation. 

"Hush.   Mrs.   Plowson,"  the   old  man  answered,  nUcously  ;  "Mr. 
Audley   is  the   best  judge.     I — 1  haven't  many  years  t<  han't 

trouble  anybody  long." 

The  tears  oozed  slowly  through  the  dirty  fingers  with  which  he  sha 
his  bloodshot  eyes  as  he  said  this. 

Gfed  knows,  I  never  injured  your  frieud,  sir,"  he  said  by-and 
when  Mrs.  Plowson   and  Georgey  had  returned,  "nor  ever  wished  him 
any  ill.     He  was  a  good   son-in-law  to  m< — better  than  many  a  son.     I 
.    did   him  any  wilful   wrong,  sir.     I — 1  spent  his  m  haps, 

■  tut  i  for  it — I  am  very  sorry  for  it  now.     But  I 

ho  is  dead — no,  sir,  no,  I  do,,  old  man. 

ping  his  hand  from    his  eyes,    and 

Audley.      "J — I   don't   believe   it,    sir!      How — how   should    hi 
.dead 

;.nswcr  til 
mournfully,  and,  walking  to  the  little  window. 

. 
ohildren  - 
Mrs.   P 

Th 

■Plowson,  shunt  If  he  added,  turning  i 


122  LAPT  AJ'MJET'o  SfldHBT. 

"'Yes,  my  dear,  by-and-by." 

ake  him  away,  him  away,"  cried  Mr.'Maldun  ;  "you  are 

breaking 'mty  he. 

The  little  feflow  trotted  away  contentedly  at'Robert's  side.     He  was 
verv    well   pleased   at  the   idea  of  going  to  school,  though  he  had  been 
happy  enough   with   Inn  drunken  old  grandfather,  who .had  'always  dis- 
naudlin  affection  for  the  ;  hildj  and  had  dine  his  best  to 

spoil  Georgey,  by  letting  him  have  his  own  way  in  everything  ;   in  con- 
nee  of  which   indulgence,   Master  Talboys  had  acquired  a  taste  for 
late  hours,  hot  suppers  of  the  most  indigestible  nature,  and  sips  of  rum- 
and-water  from  his  grandfather's  glass. 

He  communicated  his  Sentiments  upon  many  subjects  to  Robert  Aud- 
ley,  as  they  walked  to  the  Dolphin  Hotel ;  but  the  barrister  did  not 
encourage  him  to  talk. 

It  was  no  very  difficult  matter  to  find  a  good  school  in  such  a  place 
as  Southampton.  Kobert  Audley  was  directed  to  a  pretty  house  be- 
tween the  'Bar  and  t«e  Avenue,  and  leaving  Georgey  to  the  care  of  a 
good4-natured  waiter,  who  seemed  to  hav®  nothing  to  do  but  to  look  out 
of  the  window,  and  whisk  invisible  dust  off  the  brightly  polished  tables, 
the  barrister  walked  up  the  High  Street  toward  Mr.  Marehmont's  acade- 
my for  young  gentlemen. 

He-found  Air.  Marchmont  a  very  sensible  man,  and  he  met  a  file  of 
orderly-looking  young  gentlemen  walking  townward  under  the  escort  of 
a  couple  of  ushers  as  he  entered  the  house. 

He  told  the  schoolmaster  that  little  George  Talboys  had  been  left  in 
his  charge  by  a  dear  friend,  who  had  sailed  for  Australia  some  months 
before,  end  whom  he  believed  to  be  dead.  He  confided  him  to  Mr. 
March tn cnt\s  especial  care,  and  he  further  requested  that  no  visitors 
should  be  admitted  to  see  the  boy  unless  accredited  by  a  letter  from 
himself.  Having  arranged  the  matter  in  a  very  few  business-like  words, 
he  returned  to  the  hotel  to  fetch  Georgey. 

He  found  the  little  man  on  intimate  terms  with  the  idle  waiter,  who 
had  been-xlirecting  Master  Georgey's  attention  to  the  different  objects  of 
interest  in  the  High  Street. 

Poor  Robert  had  about  as  much  notion  of  the  requirements  of  a  child' 
as  he  had  of  those  of  a  white  elephant:    He  had  catered  for  silkworms, 
guinea-pigs,  dormice,  canary  birds,  and  dogs,  without  number,  during  his 
boyhood,  but  he  had  never  been  called   upon  to  provide  for  a  young 
n  of  five  years  old. 

He  looked  back  five-and-twenty  years,  and  tried  to  remember  his  own 
-diet  at  the  age  of  five. 

"I've  a  vague  recollection  'of  getting  a  good  deal  of  bread-and-milk 
and  boiled  mutton,"  he  thought;  "and  I've  another  vague  "recollection 
of  not  liking  them.  I  Wonder  if  this  boy  likes  bread  and  milk  and 
boiled  mutton." 

He  stood  pulling  his  thick  moustache  and  staring  thoughtfully  at  the 
i  -child  for  some  minutes  before  he  could  get  any  furli 

"I  dare  say  you're  hungry,  Georgey,"  he  said,  at  last. 


LM>Y  AUDiAY*  SSOBET.  123 

and  the  waiter  whisked  some. mi  ible  dn  t 

st  table  as  a  prepai 
"Perhaps  you'd  like  some  lunch?*1  Mr.  Audley  si  pull- 

ing his  moustache. 

boy  bur,st  out  laughing. 
"  Lunch  !"  he  cried.     "  Why,  its  afternoo 

ajt   himself  brought  to  a  standstill. 
ment   could   he   possibly  provide  for  a  boj 
three  o'clock  ? 

"  You  shall  have  soma  bread-and-milk.  Georgey,"  he  said,  presently. 
"Waiter,  bread-and-milk,  and  a  pint  of  hock." 
Master  Talboys  made  a  wry 

"  1  never  have  bread-and-miik.'.'  he  said  ;  "I  don't  like  it.  I  like,  what 
gran'pa  calls  something  savory.  1  should  like  a  veal  cutlet.  Gran'pa 
told   me  he  dined  here  once,  and  the  Veal  cutlets  were  I  ran'pa 

sud.     Cleave  may  I  havo  a  veal  c***!*^  -with  egg  and  bread-crumb,  ycfu 
know,  and  lemon-juice,  you  know  ?w  b*>  added  to  the  waiter     "  G;. 
know:;  the  cook  here.     The  Gook'a  sueh  a  nice  gentleman,  and  once  gave 
me  a  shilling,  when   gran'pa   brought  rne  here.     The   cook  wears  I 
clothes   than  gran'pa — better  than   yours   even,"  said  Master  Georgey, 
pointing  to  Robert's  rough  gceat-coat  with  a  depreciating  nod. 

Robert  Audley  stared  aghast.     How  was  be  to  deal  with  this  epicure 
of  five  years  old,  who  rejected  bread-and-milk  and  asked  for  veal  cutlets? 
"I'll   tell  you   what  I'll  do  with  you,  little  Georgey,"  he  exclaimed, 
after  a  pause — "/7<  give  you  a  dinner!" 
The  waiter  nodded  brisk  I  \ . 

"  Upon  my  word,  sir,"  he  said,  approvingly,  "  T  think  the  little  gentle- 
man will  know  how  to  eat  if." 

"I'll  give  you  a  dinner,  Georgey,"  repeated   Robert — "some  stewed 
a  little  Julienne,  a  dish  of  cutlets,  a  bird,  and  a  pudding.     What 
do  you  say  to  that,  Georgey?" 

"  I  don't  think  (he  young  gentleman  will  object  to  it  when  he  s< 
sir,"  said  the   waiter.     "  I    iienne,  cutlets,   bird,   puddii 

and  tell  the  cook,  sir.     V  sir?" 

"Well,  we'll  say  six.  y  will  gel 

by  bed  time.     You  can  contrite  I  the  child  I  fternoon,  I 

•'lie.    and    shan't    b<  i  {alee 

him  out.     1  shall  sleep  here  to-night.  .re  of 

in  order  •  .  ,     .' 

>ert  Audi  .  in  charge,  of  the  idle  waiter,  and  strolled 

doWi  ,':k  which  i  .v  iw- 

i    I  i 

lb   I  id  purp<  ,ked 

I  i  him. 

-vii.  and  made  inquiries  at  the 

"1 


124  LADY   AlfcLJErS  SECRET: 

George's  father  before  nightfall.     I  will-  tell  him  all — all  but  the  into 
•  which  1  take  in — in  the  suspected  person,  and  he  shall  .decide  what  is 
next 'to  be  done." 

Master  Georgey  d  justice  to  the  dinner  which  Robert  had 

ordered.     H&  drank  Bass's- pale,  ale;  to  an  extent  which 

'lis  entertainer,  and  enjoyed  himself  amazingly,  showing  an  ap- 
iation  of  roast;  pheasant  and  bread-sauce-  which  was  beyond  his 
years.  At  eight  o'clock  a  fly  was  brought  oat/ for  his  accomi 
and  he  departed  in  the  highest  spirits,  with  a  sovereign  in  his  pocket, 
and  a  letter  from  Robert  to  Mr.  Marchmont,  inclosing  a  check  for  the 
young  gentleman's  outfit. 

'•  Tin  glad  I'm  going  to  have  new  clothes,"  he  said,  as  he  bade  Robert 
Uby;  "  for  Mrs.  Plbwson  has  mended  the   old  ones  ever  so  many 
times.  '  She  can  have  them  now  for  Billy." 

•'  Who's  Billy  ?"  Robert  asked,  laughing  at  the  boy's  chatter. 

(:  Billy  is  poor  Matilda's  little  boy.     He's  a  common  boy,  you  know. 
Matilda  was  common,  but  she '   . 

But  the  flyman  smacking  his  whip  at  this  moment,  the  old  horse  jog- 
ged off,  and  Robert  Audley  heard  no  more  of  Matilda. 


1  CHAPTER  XXII. 

COMING  TO  A.  STANDSTILL. 

Mr.  Harcourt  Talboys  lived  in  a  prim,  square,  red-brick  mansion, 
within  a  mile  of  a  little  village  called  Grange  Heath,  in  Dorsetshire. 
The  prim,  square,  red-brick  mansion  stood  jn  the  centre  of  prim,  square 
grounds,  scarcely  large  enough  to  be  called  a  park,  too  large  to  be  call- 
ed any  thing  else — so  neither  the  house  nor  the  grounds  had  any  name, 
and  the  estate  was  simply  designated  Squire  Talboys'. 

Perhaps  Mr.  Harcourt  Talboys  Was  the  very  last  person  in  this  world 
with  whom  it  was  possible  to  associate  the  homely,  hearty,  rural,  old 
English  title  of  squire.  He  neither  hunted  nor  farmed.  He  had  never 
worn  crimson,  pink,  or  top-boots  in  his  life.  A  southerly  wind  aud  a 
cloudy  sky  were  matters  of  supreme  indifference  to  him,  so  long  as  they 
did  not  in  any  way  interfere  with  his  own  prim  comforts  ;  and  he  only 
cared  for  the  state  of  the  crops  inasmuch  as  involved  the  hazard  of  cer- 
tain rents  which  he  received-  for  the  farms  upon  his  estate.  He  was  a 
man  of  about  fifty  years  of  age,  tall,  straight,  bony,  and  angular,  with  a 
square,  pale  face,  light*  gray  eyes,  and  scanty  dark  hair,  brushed  from 
either  ear  across  a  bald  crown,  and  thus  imparting  to  his  physiognomy 
some  faint- resemblance  to  that  of  a  terrier — a  sharp,  uncompromising, 


LAD  Y  A  U  DLL  Y  'S  S  EOS  ET.  125 

hard T. cad ed  terrier — a  terrier -'not  to  be  taken  in  hy  the  cleverest  dog- 
stealer.  who  ever  distinguished  himself  in  hia  profession. 
'  Nobody  lembered  getting  upon  what  is  popularly  called  (he 

blind  side  of  Harcourt  Talboys.  He  was  like  his  own  square-built, 
northern-fronted,  shelterless  house.  There  were  no  shady  nooks  in  his 
character  into  which  one  could  creep  for  shelter  from  his  hard  daylight, 
He  Was  all  daylight.  He  looked  at  every  thing  in  the  same  b 
of  intellectual  sunlight,  and  would  sec- no  9oftening  shadows  that  might 
alter  the  sharp  outlines  of  cruel  facts,  subduing  them  to  beauty.  1  do 
not  know  if. I  express  what  1  mean,  when  1  say  that  there  were  no  curves 
in  his  character — that  his  mind  ran  in  straight  lines,  never  diverging  Co 
the  right  or  the  left  to  round  oil"  their  pitiless  angles.    "With  him  right 

ight  and  wrong  was  wrong.      lie  had  never  in  his   merciless. 
Bcientious  life  admitted   the  idea  that   circumstance  might  mitigate  the 
blackness  of  wrong  or  weaken  the  force  of  right.     He  had  east  off  his 
only  son  because  his  only  son  had  disobeyed  him.   and  he  was  ready  to 
cast  off  his  only  daughter  at  five  minutes'  notice  fur  the  same  reason. 

k  If  thjS  square-Kuilt, 'hard-headed  man  could  be  possessed  of  such  a 
weakness  as  vanity,  he  was  certainly  vain  of  his  hardness.  He  was  vain 
of  that  inflexible  squareness  of  intellect  which  made  him  the  disagreea- 
ble creature  that  ho  was.  He  was  vain  of  that  unwavering  obstinacy 
■which  no  influence  of  love  or  pity  had  been  ever  known  to  bend  from  its 
remorseless  purpose.  He  was  vain  of  the  negative  force  of  a  nature 
which  had  never  known  the  weakness  of  the  affections,  or  the  strength 
which  may  be  born  of  that  very  weakness. 

If  he  had  regretted  his  son's  marriage,  and  the  breach,  of  his  own  ma- 
king, between  himself  and  George,  his  vanity  had  been  more  powerful 
than  his  regret,  and  had  enabled  him  to  conceal  it.  Indeed,  unlikely  as 
it  appears  at  the  first  glance  that  such  a  man  as  this  could  have  been 
vain,  f  have  little  doubt  that  vanity  was  the  centre  from  which  radiated 
all  the  disagreeable  lines  in  the  charaeter  of  Mr.  Harcourt  Talboys.  I 
dare  say  Junius  Brutus  was  vain,  and  enjoyed  the  approval  of  awe- 
stricken  Rome  when  he  ordered  his  son  off  for  execution.  Harcourt 
Talboys  would  have  sent  poo  from    his  presence  between  the 

reversed  fasces  of  the  Hctors,  and  grimly  relished  his  own  agony. 
ven  only  knows  how  bit'1  rly  this  hard  man  may  have  felt   the  separa- 
tion between  himself  and  his  only  son,  or  how  much   the  more  terrible 
the  anguish  might  have  been  made  by  that  unflinching  self-conceit  which 
torture. 

"My  son  did  me  an  unpardonable  wrong  by  marrying  the  daughter 
of  a  drunken  pauper,"  Mr.  Talboys  would  answer  to  any  one  who  had 
the  temerity  to  speak  to  him  about  Greoige,  "'and  from  that  hour  1  had 
no  longer  a  son.  1  wi<h  him  no  ill.  He  is  supply  dead  to  me.  1  am 
sorry  for  him,  as  I  am  sorry  for  his  mother  who  di<  d  nine; 

i  talk  to  me  of  him  as  you  would  talk  oft!.  |  .ady 

to  hear  you.     If  you  speak  of  him  as  you  would  speak  of  the    living,  I 
must  decline  to  listen." 

I  believe  that  Han  >urt  Talboys  hugged   himself  upon  tho   gloomy 


22o  kADY  kUDLSfQ  &BCB 

i 

Roman  -  ancle i  -peech,  and  that  ho  would  .like  to  have  worn  a 

himself  stonily  in  its  folds,„as  he  turned  his  back  up- 
■  or  George's  intercessor.     George  never  in  his  own- person  matte 
any  effort  to  soften  his  father's  verdict.     He  knew  his  father  well  enough  • 
to  know  that  the  case  was  hopeless. 

"■If  ■  him.  he  will  fold  my  letter   with   the  envelope   inside, 

and  indorse  it  with  my  name  and  the  date  of  its  arrival,"  the  young  man 
would  say,  "  and  call  everybody  in  the  house  to  witness  that  it  had  not  • 

i  to  one  softening,  recollection  or  one  pitiful  thought.    He  will 
srick  solution  to  his  dying  day.     I  dare  say,  if  the  tru/th  was 

know;;,  ha  is  glad  that)  his  only  son  has  offended  him  and  given  him  the 
opportunity  of -parading  his  Roman  virtues." 

George  had  answered  his  wife  thus  when  she  and  hex  father  had  urged 
him  to  ask  assistance  from  Harcourt  Talboys. 

"  No,  my  darling,"  he  would- say,  conclusively.  "It  is  very  hard, 
perhaps,  to  be  poor,  but  we  will  bear  it.  We  won't  go  with  pitiful  fa- 
ces to  the  stern  father,  and  ask  him  to  give  us  food  and  shelter,  only  to 
be  refused  in  long,  Johnsonian  sentences,  and  made  a  classical  example 
for  the  benefit  of  the  neighborhood.  No,  my  pretty  one;  it  is  easy  to 
starve,  but  it  is  difficult  to  stoop." 

Perhaps  poor  Mrs.  George  did  not  agree  very  heartily  to  the  rkst  of 
these  two  propositions.  She  had  no  great  fancy  for  starving,  and  she 
whimpered  pitifully  when  the  pretty  pint  bottles  of  champagne,  with 
Cliquot's  and  Moet's  brands  upon  their  corks,  were  exchanged  for  six- 
penny ale,  procured  by  a  slipshod  attendant  from  the  nearest  beershop. 
George  had  been  obliged  to  carry  his  own  burden  and  lend  a  helping 
hand  with  that  of  his  wife,  who  had  no  idea'  of  keeping  her  regrets  or 
disappointments  a  secret. 

"J -'thought  dragoons  were  always  rich,"  she  used  to  say.  peevishly. 
"  Girls  always  want  to  marry  dragoons;  and  tradespeople  always  want 
to  serve  dragoons;  and  hotel-keepers  to  entertain  dragoons;  'and  thea- 
trical managers  to  be  patronized  by  dragoons.  Who  could  have  ever 
expected  that  a  dragoon  would  drink  sixpenny  ale,  smoke  horrid  bird's- 
eye  tobacco,  and  let  his  wife  wear  a  shabby  bonnet?" 

If  there  were  any  selfish  feeling  displayed  in  such  speeches  as  these, 
George  Talboys  had  never  discovered  it.  He  bad  loved  and  believed  in 
his  wife  from  the  first  to  the  last  hour  of  his  brief  married  life.  The  love 
that  is  not  blind  is  perhaps  only  a  spurious  divinity  after  all;  for  when 
Cupid  takes  the  'fillet  from  his  eyes  it  is  a  fatally  certain  indication  that 
he  is  preparing  to  spread  his  wings  for  a  flight.  George  never  forgot 
the  hour  in  which  he  had  first  been  bewitched  by  Lieutenant  Maldon's 
pretty  daughter,  and  however  she  might  have  changed,  the  image  which 
had  charmed  him  then,  unchanged  and  unchanging  represented  her  in 
his  heart. 
*  Robert  Audley  left  Southampton  by  a  train  which  started  before  day- 
break, and  reached  Wareham  station  early  in  the  day.  He  hired  a  ve- 
.  hide  at  Wareham  to  take  him  over  to  Grange  Heath.       \    t 

The  snow  had  hardened  upon  the  ground,  and  the  day  was  clear  and 


LAD*  AITBLI-  BBT;  127 

frost]  trp  outline   against 

the.  cold  blue  sk) .  The  horses' ho                        pon  the  i 

the  iron  si.  iron  as  th 

The  winti  • 

oing.     Like  lira,  it,  was  sharp,  I                         unpromising ;  like 

it  w.-l-'  n  uow- 

as  wo  country  without  brigh 

thus  re 

truth   ■  i  Id  that  ti; 

le. 
Rob<  1 1  And:,  k  within   I  hide  ' 

a  broad  i  ■  was 

hi  by  a  gi 
the  l<> 
Th ; 

uitly 
in  the  eze.     A.  straight,  gravelled   earri 

drive  ran  b  straight  trees  across  a  smoothly   kept  lawn  to 

d  brick  mansion,  every  window  of  which  winked  and  glittered 
in  the  January  sunlight,  as  if  it  bid  been  that  moment  cleaned 
natd. 
I  don't  know  Junius  Brutus  was  a  nuisance  in  his  own  house, 

but  among  other  of  his  Roman  virtue?'.  Mr.  Taiboys  own; 

ic  in  his  e 
lishn 

The  windows  winked  and  the  flight  of  stone  steps  glared   in   the 
.  the  prim  garden  walks  were 
i 
hair.     The  lawn  w.  uk,  wintry 'shrubs  of  a 

funere  i  beds  th  like   problems  in 

bra;  and  the  flight  i  ;•  of 

the  hall  wi 
sturdy 

"  If  the  man  is  any  thing  'ike  his  hi  |  lon't 

wonder  that  poor  I 

At  the  i 
ner  (it  would-have 

ground's)  and  ran  I  lower  wii 

dismounted  at  | 

which  flew  back  to  its  had 

D  insulted  by  <  h 
\  man  in  black  trous< 

Mi-. 
home.     V 
Rol  ill  while'  his  c  ki  a   to  the   i      ter  of 

the  house. 


128  EADY  AUDREY'S  SECRET 

The  ball  was  large  and  lofty,  paved  with  stone.  The  panels  of  the 
oaken  wainscot  shone  with  the  same  uncompromising  polish  which  was 
on  every  object  within  and  without  the  red-bricked  mansi 

Some  people  are  so  weak-minded  as  to  affect  pictures  and  statutes." 
-Mr.  Harcourt  Talboys  was  far  too  practical  to  indulge  in  any  such  foolish 
fancies.  A  barometer  and  an  umbrella-stand  were  the  only  adornments 
of  his  entrance-hall. 

Robert  Audley  looked  at  these  while  his  name  was  being  submitted 
to  George's  father. 

The  linen-jacketed  servant  returned  presently.  He  was  a  square, 
pale-laced  man  of  almost  forty,  and  had  the  appearaiice  of  having  out- 
lived every  emotion  to  which  humanity  is  subject. 

"  If  you  will  step  this  way,  sir,"  he  said,   "  Mr.  Talboys  will  see  you, 
'  although  he  is  at  breakfast.     He  begged  me  to  state  that  he,  had  imag- 
ined thut  everybody  in  Dorsetshire  was  acquainted  with  his  breakfast 
hour." 

This  was  intended  as  a  stately  "reproof  to  Mr.  Robert  Audley.  It 
had,  however,  very  small  effect  upon  the  young  barrister.  He  merely 
lifted  his  eyebrows  in  placid  deprecation  of  himself  and  every  body  else. 

"  I  don't  belong  to  Dorsetshire,"  he  said.  "  Mr.  Talboys  might  have 
known  that,  if  he'd  done  me  the  honor  to  exercise  his  powers  of  ratioci- 
nation.    Drive  on,  my  friend." 

The"  emotionless  man  looked  at  Robert  Audley  with  the  vacant  stare 
of  unmitigated  honor,  and  opening  one  of  the  heavy  oak  doors,  led  the 
way  into  a  large  dining-room  furnished  with  the  severe  simplicity  of  an 
apartment  which  is  meant  to  be  ate  in,  but  never  lived  in ;  and  at  the 
top  of  a  table  which  would  have  accommodated  eighteen  persons,  Ro- 
bert beheld  Mr.  Harcourt  Talboys. 

Mr.  Talboys  was  robed  in  a  dressing-gown  of  gray  cloth,  fastened 
about  his  waist  with  a  girdle.  It  was  a  severe  looking  garment,  and  was 
perhaps  the  nearest  approach  to  a  toga  to  be  ob;ained  within  the  range 
of  modern  costume.  He  wore  a  buff  waistcoat,  a  stiffly  starched  cam- 
bric cravat,  and  a  faultless  shirr,  collar.  The  cold  gray  of  his  dressing- 
-gown was  almost  the  same  as  the  cold  gray  of  his  eyes,  and  the  pale 
buff  of  his  waistcoat  was  the  pale  buff  of  his  complexion. 

'  tiobert  Audley  had  not  expected  to  find  Harcourt  Talboys  at  all  like 
George  in  manners  or  disposition,  but  he  had  expected  to  see  some  fam- 
ily likeness  between  the  lather  and  the  son.  There  was  none.  It  would 
have  been  impossible  to  imagiue  any  one  more  unlike  George  than  the 
author  of  his  existence.  Robert  scarcely  wondered  at  the  cruel  letter 
he  had  received  from  Mr.  Talboys  when  he  saw  the  writer  of  it.  Such 
aiman  could  scarcely  have  written  otherwise. 

There  was  a  second  person  in  the  large  room,  toward  whom  Robert 
glanced  after  saluting  Harcourt  Talboys,  doubtful  how  to  proceed.  This; 
second  person  was  a  lady,  who  sat  at  the  last  of  a  range  of  four  windows, 
employed  with  some  needle-work,  the  kind  which  is  generally  called 
plain  work,  and  with  a  large  wicker  basket,  filled  with  calicoes  and  flan- 
nels, standing  by  her. 


LADT  AUDL!:V\S  SECliiiT.  129 

The  whole  1(  he  room   divided   this  lady  from  Robert,  but-ho 

could  see  that.  that  she  was  like  George  Talboys. 

"  His  sister  !"  he  thought  ia  that  one  moment,  during 

glance  away  from  the  master  of  the  house  toward  the  female 
figure,  at  the  window.  "His  sister,  no  doubt.  He  was  fond  of  her,  I 
know.     Surely,  she  is  not  utterly  indifferent  as  to  his  fate1?" 

The  lad;,  half  rose  from  her  sen:,  letting  her  work,  which  was  large 
tod  awkward,  fall  from  her  lap  as  she  did  so,  and  dropping  a  reel  of  cot- 
ton, which  rolled  away  upon  tho  polished  oaken  flooring  beyond  the 
margin  of  the  Turkey  carpet. 

"  Sit  down,  Clara,"  said  the  hard  voice  of  Mr.  Talboys. 

That,  gentleman  did  not  appear  to  addi  .uighter,  nor  had  his 

been   turned   towards  her  when  she  rose.     It,  seemed  as  if  he  had 

known  it  by  some  social   magnetism   peculiar  to  himself;  it  seemed,  as 

his  servants  were  apt  disrespectfully  to  observe,  as  if  ho  had  eyes  in  the 

back  of  his  hen 

"Sit  down,  Clara,"  ho  repeated,  "and  keep  your  cotton  invour  work- 
box." 

The  lady  blushed  at  this  reproof,  and  stooped  to  look  for  the  cotton. 
Mr.  Robert  Audley,  who  was  unabashed  by  tho  stern  presence  of  the 
master  of  the  house,  knelt  on  the  carpet,  found  the  reel,  and  restored  it 
to  its  owner;  Harcourt^  Talboys  staring  at  the  proceeding  with  an  ex- 
pression of  unmitigated  astonishment. 

"Perhaps.  Mr. ,  Mr.   Robert   Audley  J"  he  said,   looking  at  the 

card  which  he  held  between  nis  finger  and  thumb,  "  perhaps  when  you 
have  finished  looking  for  reels  of  cotton,  you  will  be 'good  enough  to  tell 
me  to  what  1  owe  the  honor  of  this  visit?'- 

He  waved  his  well-shaped  hand  with  a  gesture  which  might  have  been 
admired  in  the  stately  JohnKemble;  and  th«  servant,  understanding 
the  gesture,  brought  forward  a  ponderous  red-morocco  chair. 

The  proceeding  was  so  slow  and  solemn,  that  Robert  had  at  first  thought 
that    something   extraordina-  bout  to   bo   done;    but  the  truth 

dawned  upon  him  at  last,  and  he  dropped  into  the.  massive  chair. 

"You   may   remain,  Yn  Mr.   Talboys,  as  the  servant  wast1 

about  to  withdraw  ;  "  Mr.  Audley  would  perhaps  like  coffee." 

Robert  had  ca'eii  nothing  tua:  morning,  but  he  glanced  at  the  long 
expanse  of  dreary  table-cloth,  r  tea  and  coffee  equipage,  the.  stiff 

splendor  and  the  very  little  appearance  of  any  substantial  entertainment, 
and  he  declined  Mr.  Talboys  invitation. 

"Mr.  Audley  will  not  take  coffee,  Wilson,". said  the  mastproft.hr 
house.     "  You  may 

The  man  bowed  and  retired,  opening  and  shutting  the  door  as  cautious- 
ly as  if  he  were  taking  a  liberty  in  doinp  it  at  all,  or  as  if  the  respect 
due  to  Mr.  Talboys  demanded   his  walking  straight,  through  the  oakett 

■  'ry. 

Mr.  Ilarcourt  Tali  with   his  prey   eyes  fixed  severely  on  his 

'W3  on  the  re1  I  inir,  and  I 

ined.     1  which,  had  h.  ?uniu?  Brul 


f 


130  .  LADY  AUDLEVS  SECRET. 

he  would  have  sat  at  the  trial  of.  his  son.  Had  Robert  Audley  been 
easily  to  be  embarrassed,  Mr.  Talboys  might  have  succeeded  in  making 
him  feel  so:  as  he  would  have  sat  with  perfect  tranquility  upon  an  open 
gunpowder  barrel  lighting  his  cigar,  he  was  not  at  all  disturbed  upon 
this  occasion.  The  father's  dignity  seemed  a  very  small  thing  to  him 
when  he  thought  of  the  possible  causes  of  the  son's  disappearance. 

"  I  wrote  to  you  some  time  since,  Mr.  Talboys,"  he  said  quietly,  when 
he  saw  that  ho  was  expected  to  open  the  conversation. 

Harcourt  Talboys  bowed.  He  knew  that  it  was  of  his  lost  son  that 
Robert  came  to  speak.  Heaven  grant  that  his  icy  stoicism  was  the 
paltry  affectation  of  a  vain  man,  rather  than  the  utter  heartlessncss  which 
Robert  thought  it.  He  bowed  across  his  finger-tips  at  his  visitor.  The 
trial  had  begun,  and  Junius  Brutus  was  enjoying  himself. 

"  1  received  your  communication,  Mr.  Audley,"  he  said.  ."  It  is 
amongst  other  business  letters  :  it  was  duly  answered.", 

"  That  letter  concerned  your  son." 

There  was  a  little  rustling  noise  at  the  window  where  the  lady  sat,  as 
Robert  said  this  :  he  looked  at  her  almost  instantaneously,  but  she  did 
not  seem  to  have  stirred.  She  was  not  working,  but  she  was  perfectly 
quiet. 

"She's  as  heartless  as  her  father,  I  expect,  though  she  is  like  George," 
thought  Mr.  Audley. 

"  If  your  letter  concerned  the  person  who  was  once  my  son,  perhaps, 
sir,"  said  Harcourt  Talboys,  "  I  must  ask  v,ou  to  remember  that  I  have 
no  longer  a  son." 

"  You  have  no  reason  to  remind  me  of  that,  Mr.  Talboys,"  answered 
Robert,  gravely ;  "I  remember  it  only  too  well.  I  have  fatal  reason  to 
believe  that  you  have  no  longer  a  son.  I  have  bitter  cause  to  think  that 
he  is  dead."  * 

It  may  be  that  Mr.  Talboys'  complexion  faded  to  a  paler  shade  of 
buff  as  Robert  said  this  ;  but  he  only  elevated  his  bristling  grey  eye- 
brows and  shook  his  head  gently. 

"No,"  he  said,  "no,  I  assure  you,  no." 

"I  believe  that  George  Talboys  died  "in  the  month  of  September." 

The  girl  who  had  been  addressed  as.  Clara,  sat  with  work  primly  folded 
upon  her  lap,  and  her  hands  lying  clasped  together  on  her  work,  and 
never  stirred  when  Robert  spoke  of  his  friend's  death.  He  could  not 
distinctly  see  her  face,  for  she  was  seated  at  some  distance  from  him, 
and  with  her  back  to  the  window.  ' 

"  No,  no,  I  assure  you,"  repeated  Mr.  Talboys,  "  you  labor  under  a 
sad  mistake." 

"  You  believe  that  I  am  mistaken  in  thinking  your  son  dead  ?"  asked 
Robert. 

"  Most  certainly,"  replied  Mr.  Talboys,  with  a  smile,  expressive  of 
the  serenity  of  wisdom.  "  Most  certainly,  ray  dear  sir.  The  disap- 
pearance was  a  very  clever  trick,  no  doubt,  but  it  was  not  sufficiently 
clever  to  deceive  me.  You  must  permit  me  to  understand  this  matter 
a  little  better  than  you,  Mr.  Audley,  and  you  must  also  permit  me  to 


LADY  DUDLEY'S  SECRET.  131 

assure  you  of  three  things.  In  the  first  place,  your  friend  is  not  dead, 
in  the  second  place,  he  is  keeping  out  of  the  way  for  the  purpose  of 
alarming  me,  of  trifling  with  my  feelings  as  a: — as  a  man  who  was  once 
his  lather,  and  of  ultimately  obtaining  my  forgiveness.  In  the  third 
place,  he  will  not  obtain  that  forgiveness,  however  long  he  may  please 
to  keep  out  of  the  way  ;  and  he  would  therefore  act  wisely  by  return- 
ing to  his  ordinary  residence  and  avocations  without  delay.'" 

"Then  you  imagine  him  to  purposely  hide  himself  from  all  who  know 
him,  for  the  purpose  of ?" 

"For  the  purpose  of  influencing  me,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Talboys,  who, 
taking  a  stand  upon  his  own  vanity,  traced  every  event  in  life  from  that 
nl  re,  and  resolutely  declined  to  look' at  it  from  any  other  point  of 
view.  "  For  the  purpose  of  influencing  me.  lie  knew  the  inflexibility 
of  my  character ;  to  a  certain  degree  he  was  acquainted  with  me,  and 
he  knew  that  all  ordinary  attempts  at  softening  my  decision,  or  moving 
me  from  the  fixed  purpose  of  my  life,  would  fail.  He  therefore  tried 
extraordinary  means;  he  has  kept  out  of  the  way  in  order  to  alarm  me ; 
and  when  after  due  time  he  discovers  that  he  has  not  alarmed  me,  he 
will  return  to  his  old  haunts.  When  he  does  so,"  said  Mr.  Talboys, 
rising  to  sublimity,  u I  will  forgive  him.  Yes,  sir,  I  will  forgive  him. 
I  shall  Say  to  him  :  You  have  attempted  to  deceive  me,  and  I  have  shown 
Kit  I  am  not  to  be  deceived  ;  you  have  tried  to  frighten  me,  and  I 
have  -  on  vi  need  you  that  I  am  not  to  be  frightened;  you  did  not  believe 
in  my  generosity,  I  will  show  you  that  I  can  be  generous." 

Harcourt  Talboys  delivered  himself  of  these  superb  periods  with  a 
studied  manner,  that  showed  they  had  been  carefully  composed  long  ago. 

Robert  Audley  sighed  as  he  heard  them. 

"Heaven  grant  that  you  may  have  an  opportunity  of  saying  this  to 
your  son,  sir,''  he  answered  sadly.  "  I  am  very  glad  to  find  that  you 
are  willing  to  forgive  him,  but  I  fear  that  you  will  never  see  him  again 
upon  this  earth.  I  have  a  great  deal  to  say  to  you  upon  this — this  sad 
subject,  Mr.  Talboys  ;  but  1  would  rather  say  it  to  you  alone,"  he  added, 
glancing  at  the  lady  in  the  window. 

••  My  daughter  knows  my  ideas  upon  this  subject,  Mr.  Audley,"  said 
Harcourt  Talboys  ;  "  there  is  no  reason  why  she  should  not  hear  all  you 
have  to  say.  Miss  Clara  Talboys,  Mr.  Robert  Audley,"  he  added,  wav- 
ing his  hand  majestically. 

The  young  lady  bent  her  head  in  recognition  of  Robert's  bow. 

"  Let  her  hear  it,"  he  thought.  "  If  she  has  so  little  feeling  as  to  show 
no  emotion  upon  such  a  subjeot,  let  her  hear  the  worst  I  have  to  tell." 

There  was  a  few  minutes'  pause,  during  which  Robert  took  some  pa- 
from  his  pockel  ;  amongst  them  the  document  which  he  had  writ- 
ten immediately  after  George's"  disappearance. 

"I  shall  require  all  your  attention,  Mr.  Talboys,"  ho  said,  "  for  that 
which  I  have  to  disclose  to  you  is  of  a  very  painful  nature.  Your  son 
was  my  very  dear  friend — dear  to  me  for  many  reasons.  Perhaps  most 
of  all  •  ause  I  had  known  him  and  been  with  him  through  the 

great  trouble  of  his  life;  and  because  he  stood  comparatively  alone  in 


132  LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECBETi 

the  world — cast  off  by  you  who  should  have  been  his  best  friend,  bereft 
of  the  only  woman  he  had  ever  loved." 

"The  daughter  of  a  drunken  pauper,"'  Mr.  Talboys  remarked,  paren- 
thetically. 

"  Had  he  died  in  his  bed,  as  I  sometimes  thought  he  would;"  continu- 
ed Robert  Audley,  "of  a  broken  heart,  I  should  have  mourned  for  him 
very  sincerely,  even  though  I  had  closed  his  eyes  with  my  own  hands, 
and  had  seen  him  laid  in  his  quiet  resting-place.  I  should  have  grieved 
for  my  old  school-fellow,  and  for  the  companion  who  had  been  dear  to 
me.  But  this  grief  would  have  been  a  very  small  one  compared  to  that 
which  I  feel  new,  believing,  as  I  do  only  too  firmly,  that  my  poor  friend 
has  been  murdered." 

"  Murdered !" 

The  father  and  daughter  simultaneously  repeated  the  horrible^vord. 
The  father's  face  changed  to  a  ghastly  duskiness  of  hue  ;  the  daughter's 
face  dropped  upon  her  clasped  hands,  and  was  never  lifted  again  through- 
out the  interview. 

"Mr.  Audley,  you  are  mad  !"  exclaimed  Harcourt  Talboys ;  'you 
are  mad,  or  else  you  are  commissioned  by  your  friend  to  play  upon  my 
feelings.  I  protest  against  this  proceeding  as  a  conspiracy,  and  I — I  re- 
voke my  intended  forgiveness  of  the  person  who  was  once  my  son." 

He  was  himself  again  as  he  said  this.  The  blow  had  been  a  sharp 
one,  but  its  effect  had  been  momentary. 

"  It  is  far  from  my  wish  to  alarm  you  unnecessarily,  sir,"  answered 
Robert.  "  Heaven  grant  that  you  may  be  right  and  I  wrong.  I  pray 
for  it,  but!  cannot  think  it — I  cannot  even  hope  it.  I  come  to  you  for 
advice.  I  will  state  to  you  plainly  and  dispassionately  the  circumstances 
which-have  aroused  my  suspicions.  If  you  say  those  suspicions  are  fool- 
ish and  unfounded,  I  am  ready  to  submit  to  your  better  judgment.  I 
will  leave  England  ;  and  I  abandon  my  search  for  the  evidence  wanting 
to — to  confirm  my  fears.    If  you  say  go  on,,  I  will  go  on." 

Nothing  could  be  more  gratifying  to  the  vanity  of  Mr.  Harcourt  Talboys 
than  this  appeal.  He  declared  himself  ready  to  listen  to  all  that  Ro- 
bert might  have  to  say,  and  ready  to  assist  him  to  the  uttermost  of  his 
power. 

He  laid  some  stress  upon  this  last  assurance,  deprecating  the  value  of 
his  advice  with  an  affectation  that  was  as  transparent  as  his  vanity 
itself. 

Robert  Audley  drew  his  chair  nearer  to  that  of  Mr.  Talboys,  and  com- 
menced a  minutely  detailed  account  of  all  that  had  occurred  to  George 
from  the  time  of  his  arrival  in  England  to  the  hour  of  his  disappearance, 
as  well  as  all  that  had  occurred  since  his  disappearance  in  any  Way 
touching  upon  that  particular  subject.  Harcourt  Talboys  listened  with 
demonstrative  attention,  now  and  then  interrupting  the  speaker  to  ask 
some  magisterial  kind  of  question.  Clara  Talboys  never  once  lifted  her 
face  from  her  clasped  hands.  * 

The  hands  of  the  clock  pointed  to  a  quarter  past  eleven  when  Robert 
began  his  story.    The  clock  struck  twelve  as  he  finished. 


LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET.  133 

He  had  carefully  suppressed  the  names  of  his  uncle  and  his  uncle's 
wife  in  rotating  the  circumstances  in  which  they  had  been  concerned. 

"  Now,  Sir,"  he  said,  when  the  story  had  been  told,  "[  await  your 
decision.  You  have  heard  my  reasons  for  coming  to  this  terrible  con- 
clusion.    In  what  manner  do  those  reasons  influence  you?" 

"They  don't  in  any  way  turn  me  from  my  previous  opinion,"  answer- 
ed Mr.  Harcourt  Talboys,  with  the  unreasoning  pride  of  an  obstinate 
man.  "  I  still  think,  as  I  thought  before,  that  my  son  is  alive,  and  that 
his  disappearance  is  a  conspiracy  against  myself.  I  declino  to  become 
the  victim  of  that  conspiracy." 

"And  yon  tell  me  to  stop?"  asked  Robert  solemnly. 

"  I  tell  you  only  this  : — If  you  go  on,  you  go  on  for  your  own  satis- 
faction, not  for  mine.  1  sec  nothing  in  what  you  have  told  me  to  alarm 
me  for  the  safety  of your  friend." 

"So  be  it,  then  !"  exclaimed  Uobert,  suddenly;  "from  this  moment 
I  wash  my  hands  of  this  business.  From  this  moment  the  purpose  of 
my  life  shall  be  to  forget  it." 

lie  rose  as  he  spoke,  and  took  his  hat  from  the  table  on  which  he  had 
placed  it.  He  looked  at  Clara  Talboys.  Her  attitude  had  never  changed 
since  she  had  dropped  her  face  upon  her  hands.  "Good  morning,  Mr. 
Talboys,"  he  said,  gravely.  "  God  grant  that  you  are  right.  vGodgrant 
that  I  am  wrong.  But  I  fear  a  day  will  come  when  you  will  have  rea- 
son to  regret  your  apathy  respecting  the  untimely  fate  Of  your  only  son." 

He  bowed  gravely  to  Mr.  Harcourt  Talboys  and  to  the  lady,  whoste 
face  was  hidden  by  her  hands. 

He  lingered  for  a  moment  looking  at  Miss  Talboys,  thinking  that  she 
would  look  up,  that  she  would  make  some  sign,  or  show  some  desire  to 
detain  him.  ) 

Mr.  Talboys  rang  for  the  emotionless  servant,  who  led  Robert  ofTto 
the  hall  door  with  the  solemnity  of  manner  which  would  have  been  in 
perfect  keeping  had  he  boon  leading  him  to  execution. 

"She  is  like  her  father.*"  'bought  Mr.  Audloy,  as  he  glanced  for  the 
last  time  at  the  drooping  head.  '•  Poor  George",  you  had  need  of  one 
friend  in  this  world,  for  you  have  had  very  few  to  love  you." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

CLARA. 

Robert  Audlby  found  the  driver  asleep  upon  the  box  of  his  lumber- 
ing vehicle.  lie  had  been  entertained  with  beer  of  so  hard  a  nature,  as 
to  induce  temporary  ftrnngulation  in  the  daring  imbiber  thereof,  and  he 


134  LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECREll 

•was  very  glad  to  welcome  the  return  of  his  fare.  The  old  white  horse, 
who  looked  as  if  he  had  been  foaled  in  the  year  in  which  the  carriage 
had  been  built,  and  teemed,  like  the  carriage,  to  have  outlived  the  fash- 
ion, was  as  fast  asleep  as  his  master,  and  woke  up  with  a  jerk  as  Robert 
came  down  the  stony  flight  of  steps,  attended  by  his  executioner,  who 
waited  respectfully  till  Mr.  Audley  had  entered  the  vehicle"  and  been 
turned  off. 

The  horse,  roused  by  a  smack  of  his  driver's  whip  and  a  «hake  of  the 
shabby  reins,  crawled  off  in  a  semi-somnambulent  state,  and  Robert, 
with  his  hat  very  much  over  his  eyes,  thought  of  his  missing  friend. 

He  had  played  in  these  stiff'  gardens,  and  under  these  dreary  firs, 
years  ago,  perhaps — if  it  were  possible  for  the  most  frolicsome  youth  to 
be  playful  within  the  range  of  Mr.  Harcourt  Talboys'  hard  grey  eyes. 
He  had  played  beneath  these  dark  trees,  perhaps,  with  the  tister  who 
had  heard  of  his  fate  to-day  without  a  tear.  Robert  Audley  looked  at 
the  rigid  primness  of  the  orderly  grounds,  wondering,  how  George  could 
have  grown  up  in  such  a  place  to  be  the  frank,  generous,  careless  friend 
whom  he  had  known.  How  was  it  that  with  his  father  perpetually 
fore  his  eyes,  he  had  not  grown  up  after  the  father's  disagreeable  model, 
to  be  a  nuisance  to  his  fellow-men  ?  How  was  it  1  Becr.use  we  have 
Some  One  higher  than  our  parents  to  thank  for  the  souls  which  make  us 
great  or  small ;  and  because,  while  family  noses  and  family  chins  may 
descend  in  orderly  sequence  from  father  to  son,  from  grandsirc  to  grand- 
child, as  the  fashion  of  the  fading  flowers  of  one  year  is  reproduced  in 
the  budding  blossoms  of  the  next,  the  spirit,  more  subtle  than  the  wrhd 
which  blows  among  those  flowers,  independent  of  a\\  earthly  rule,  owns 
no  order  but  the  harmonious  Law  of  God. 

"  Thank  God  !"  thought  Robert  Audley  ;  "  thank  God !  it  is  over. 
My  poOr  friend  must  rest  in  his  unknown  graven  and  I  shall  not  be  the 
means  of  bringing  disgrace  upon  those  I  love.  It  will  come,  perhaps, 
sooner  or  later,  but  it  will  not  come  through  me.  The  crisis  is  past, 
and  I  am  free. 

He  felt  an  unutterable  relief  in  this  thought.  His  generous  nature 
revolted  at  the  office  into  which  he  had  found  himself  drawn — the  office 
of  spy,  the  collector  of  damning  facts  that  led  on  to  horrible  deductions. 

He  drew  a  long  breath — a  sigh  of  relief  at  his  release.  It  was  all 
over  now. 

The  fly  was  crawling  out  of  the  gate  of  the  plantation  as  he  thought- 
this,  and  he  stood  up  in  the  vehicle  to  look  back  at  the  dreary  fir-trees, 
the  gravel  paths,  the  smooth  grass,  and  the  great  desolate-looking,  red- 
brick mansion. 

He  was  startled  by  the  appearance  of  a  woman  running,  almost  fly- 
ing, along  the  carriage-drive  by  which  he  had  come,  and  waving  a  hand- 
kerchief in  her  ifplifted  hand. 

He  stared  at  this  singular  apparition  for  some  moments  in  silent 
wonder  before  he  was  able  to  reduce  his  stupefaction  into  words. 

"Is  it  me  the  flying  female  wants?"  he  exclaimed  at  last.  ."You'd 
better  stop,  perhaps,"  he  added  to  the  flyman.     "  It  is  an  age  of  eccen- 


LADY  ADDLEY'S  SECRET.  ■  135 

tricity,  au  abnormal  era  of  the  world's  history.  She  may  want  me. 
Very  likely  I  left  my  pocket-handkerchief  behind  me,  and  Mr.  Talboys 
has  sent  this  person  with  it.  Perhaps  I'd  better  get  out  and  go  and 
mpet  her.     It's  civil  to  send  my  handkerchief." 

Mr.  Roberl  Aiidley  deliberately  descended  from  the  fly  and  walked 
slowly  towards  the  hurrying  female  figure,  which  gained  upon  him 
rapidly. 

He  was  rather  short-sighted,  and  it  was  not  until  she  came  very  near 
to  hin  -aw  who  she  was. 

"  Good  Heavens!1'  he  exclaimed,  "it's  Miss  Talboys." 

It  was  Miss  Talboys,  flushed  and  breathless,  with  a  woolen  shawl  over 
her  1. 

Kobert  Audley  now  saw  her  face  clearly  for  the  first  time,  and  he  saw 
that  sin'  was  very  handsome.  She  had  brown  eyes,  like  George's,  a  pale 
complexion  (she  had  been  flushed  when  she  approached  him,  but  the 
colour  faded  away  as  she  recovered  her  breath),  regular  features,  and  a 
mobility  of  expression  which  bore  record  of  every  change  of  feeling.  He 
saw  ail  this  in  a  few  moments,  and  he  wondered  only  the  more  at  the 
stoicism  of  her  manner  during  his  interview  with  Mr.  Talboys.  There 
no  tears  in  her  eyes,  but  they  were  bright  with  a  feverish  lustre — 
terribly  bright  and  dry — and  he  could  see  that  her  lips  trembled  as  she 
spoke  to  him. 

"  Miss  Talboys,"  he  said,  "  what  can  I  ? — why " 

She  interrupted  him  suddenly,  catching  at  his  wrist  with  her  disenga- 
ged hand — she  was  holding  her  shawl  in  the  other. 

"Oh,  let  me  speak  to  you,"  she  cried — "let  me  speak  to  you,  or  I 
shall  go  mad.  I  heard  it  all.  I  believe  what  you  believe,  and  I  shall 
go  mad  unless  I  can  do  something — something  toward  avenging  his 
death." 

Ror  a  few  moments  Robert  Audley  was  too  much  bewildered  to  an- 
swer her.  Of  all  things  possible  upon  earth  he  had  least  expected  to 
behold  her  thus. 

"Take  m\  arm,  Mi=,s  Talboys,"  he  said.     "  Pray  calm  yourself.  Let 
ilk  a  littler  way  back  toward  the  house,  and  talk  quietly.     I  would 
not  have  spoken  as  I  did  before  you  had  I  known " 

"  Had  you  known  that  I  loved  my  brother,"  she  said  quickly.  "How 
should  you  know  that  I  loved  him  ?  IIow  should  any  one  think  that  I 
loved  him,  when  1  b  r  had  power  to  give  him  a  welcome  beneath 

that  :d  from  his  father  I      I  low     hould  I  dare  to  be- 

tray ray  love  for  him  in  that  house  when  I  knew  that  even  a  sister 
.1  would   be  tui  You  do  not  know 

I  do,     1  knew  thai  to  intercede  for  George  would 

si  en  to  ruin  his  cause.     1  kn<  leave  matters  in  my  fathers 

hands,  and  to  trust  to  tin  ver  seeing  that  dear 

brail  And  I  waited — w.  ■nlly.alw.  r  thf> 

w   that  my    lather  loved    his  only   son.     I  con- 

iy  it  is.  diflicul'  inger 

omo 


136 '  x     tApa  ..- 

degree  of  affection  for  his  ehiidrc  warm  Stt  perhaps, 

for  he- has  always  ruled  his  Hi  strict  law  of  duty.     Stop/'  she 

said,  suddenly,  laying  her  band  upon  his  arm,  and  looking  back  through 
the  straight  avenue  of  [lines ;  "  1  ran  out  of  tho  house  by  the  back  way. 
Papa  must  not. see  me  talking  to  you,  Mr.  Audley,  and  he  must  not  see 
the  fly  standing  at  the  gate.  "Will  you  go  into  the  high  road  and  tell 
the  man  to  drive  on  a  little  way  9  1  will  come  out  of  the  plantation  by 
'a  little  gate  further  on,  and  meet  you  in  tho  road." 

"But  you  will  catch  cold,  Miss  Talboys,"  remonstrated  Robert  I 
ing  at  her   anxiously,  for  he  saw  that  sho  was  trembling.     "You  are 
shivering  now." 

"Not  with  cold,"  she  answered.  "I  am  thinking  of  my  brother 
George.  If  you  have  any  pity  for  the  only  sister  of  your  lost  friend,  do 
what  I  ask  you,  Mr.  Audley.  1  must  speak  to  you — I  must  speak  to 
you — calmly,  if  I  can." 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  head  as  if  trying  to  collect  her  thoughts,  and 
then  pointed  to  the  gate.  Robert  bowed  .and  left  her.  He  told  the 
man  to  drive  slowly  toward  the  station,  and  walked  on  by  the  side  of 
the  tarred  fence  surrounding  Mr.  Talboys'  grounds.  About  a  hundred 
yards  beyoud  the  principal  entrance  he  came  to  a  little  wooden  gate  in 
the  fence,  and  waited  at  it  for  Miss  Talboys; 

She  joined  him  presently,  with  her  shawl  still  over  her  head,  and  her 
eyes  still  bright  and  tearless. 

"Will  you  walk  with  me  inside  the  plantation  9"  she  said.  "We 
might  be  observed  on  the  high  road." 

He  bowed,  passed  through  the  gate,  and  shut  it  behind  him. 

When  she  look  his  offered  arm,  he  found  that  she  was  still  trembling 
— trembling  very  violently. 

"Pray,  pray  calm  yourself,  Miss  Talboys,"  he  said :  "  I  may  have 
been  deceived  in  the  opinion  which  I  have  formed  ;  I  may " 

"  No,  no,  no,"  she  exclaimed,  "  you  are  not  deceived.  My  brother 
has  been  murdered.  Tell  me  the  name  of  that  woman — the  woman 
whom  you  suspect  of  being  concerned  in  his  disappearance — in  his 
murder. 

"  That  I  cannot  do  until " 

"Until  when 9" 

"  Until  I  know  that  she  is  guilty." 

"You  told  my  father  that  you  would  abandon  all  idea  of  discovering 
the  truth — that  you  would  rest  satisfied  to  leave  my  brother's  fate  a 
horrible  mystery  never  to  be  solved  upon  this  earth  ;  but  you  will  not 
do  so,  Mr.  Audley — you  will  not  be  false  to  the  memory  of  your  friend. 
You  will  see  vengeance  done  upon  those  who.  haVe  destroyed  him.  You 
will  do  this,  will  you  not  9" 

A'gloomy  shadow  spread  itself  like  a  dark  veil  over  Robert  Audley's 
handsome  face. 

He  remembered  what  he  had  said  the  day  before  at  Southampton — 

"  A  hand  that  is  stronger  than  my  own  is  beckoning  me  onward  upon 
the  dark  road." 


LADY   A UDLE Yd  SECRET  137 

A-nuarter  of  nn  hour  before  ifcall  was 6veryatia  that 

ho  w  tsed  from  the  dreadful  duty   6f  ;  the  secret  of 

George's  death.     Now  ibis  girl,  this  apparently    ;  . ;,  had 

!,  and  \va  im  on  toward  his  fate. 

"If  you  knew  what  miserj  to  rn  i  involved  in  disc&verfng  the 

truth,  I\li  d,  "yoii  would  scarcely  ask  pa  to  | 

"  But  1  d  •  ask  yi  ed,  with  su 

1  ask  you  to  avenge  my  brother's  untimely  death.     Will  ; 
no?" 

"  What  if  I  answer  no?" 

"■Then  I  wilt  do  ic  exclaim  Dg  at. him   with  her 

bright  hro  se]f  will  follow  up  the  clue  to  this  mj  - 

i  will  find  this  woman—  <'„rh  you  refuse  to  tell  cpe  in  wh 

of  England  m  I  will  travel  from  one  end  of  the 

world  to  the  other  to  find  tl  ■  ■,  if  you-  refuse   to  find  it 

forme.     I  Am  of  a  rich,   for   I   have 

me  by  one  of  my  aunts  ;   \  >  ■  who  will  help 

me  in  my  search,' and  1  will  make  it  i 

Choose  between  tl  ernativee>  Mr.  Audley.     Shall  you  or  I  find 

my  brother's  murderer'?" 

He  looked  in  her  face,  and  saw  that  her  resolution  was  the  fruit  of  no 
transient  womanish  enthusiasm  which  would  tyme  way  under  the  iron 
hand  of  difficulty.  Her  beautiful  features,  naturally  statuesque  in  their 
noble  outlines,  seemed  transformed  into  marble  by  the  rigidity  of  her 
expression.  The  face  in  which  he  looked  was  the  face  of  a  woman  whom 
death  only  could  turn  from  her  purr 

"I  have  grown  up  in  an  atmosphere  of  suppression/'  she  said,  quietly; 
"I  have  stifled  and  dwarfed  the  natural  feelings  of  my  heart,  until  they 
have  become  annatural  in  their  intensity;  I  have  been  allowed  neither 
friends  nor  lovers.     My*mother  died  when  I  v.  young.     i\!y  fa- 

ther has  al way  »  me  what  you  saw.  him  to-day.     !   ha*e  had  no 

one  but  my  brother.     All  the  love  thai  m]  in  hold  has 

tred  upon  him.     Do  you  wonder  then  that  when  I  hear  that 
life  has  been  ended  by  the  hand  of  treachery,   that   I   wish   to 
geance  done  upon  the  traitor?     Oh,  my  God,"  she  cried,  sudden];,  • 
ing  her  hands,  and  looking  u  >ld  winter  sky,   "lead  nip  to  the 

murderer  of  mv  brother,  and  let  mine  be  the  hand  to  avenge  his  untime- 
ly death." 

tood   looking  at  her   with   awe. stricken   admiration. 
Her   beauty   was  •  into  sublimity   by  the  intensity  of  her  sup- 

pres  n.     She  w  '  t  to  nil  < 

seen.     1  li^  cousin  \ 

Talboys  was    beautiful.       \  sorrow,   coiflu 

jical   than  her  drewj*' 

puritan  il  r   tha;i   a 

bca 

"  Miss  Talboys,'   -aid  R  ifter  a  pause,   " your  brother  shall  not 


138  LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET. 

be  unavenged.     He  shall  not  be  forgotten.     I  do  .not  think   that  any 
professional  aid  which  you  could  procure  would  lead  you  as  surely  to 
the'  secret  of  this  mystery  as  I  can  lead  you,  if  you  are  patient  and  trust 
me." 
.  "I  will  trust  you,"  she  answered,  "for  1  see  that  you  will  help  me." 

"  i  believe  that  it  is  my  destiny  to  do  so,"  he  said,  solemnly. 

In-  the  whole  course  of  his  conversation  with  Harcourt  Talboys,  Ro- 
bert Audley  had  carefully  avoided  making  any  deductions  from  the  cir- 
cumstances which  he  had  submitted  to  George's  father.  lie  had  simply 
told  the  story  of  the  missing  man's  life,  from  the  hour  of  his  arriving  in 
London  to  that  of  his  disappearance ;  but  he  saw  that  Clara  Talboys  had 
arrived  at  the  same  conclusion  as  himself,  and  that  it  was  .tacitly  under- 
stood between  them. 

'.'Have  you  any  letters  of  your  brother's,  Miss  Talboys1?"  he  asked. 

"Two.  One  written  soon  after  his  marriage,  the  other  written  at 
Liverpool,  the  nighty  before  he  sailed  for  Australia." 

'•  Will  you  let  me  see  them  ?" 

"  Yes,T  will  send  them  to  you  if  you  will  give  me  your  address.  You 
will  write  to  me  from  time  .to  time,  will  you  not?  to  tell  me  whether 
you  are  apprw  aching  the  truth.  I  shall  be  obliged  to  act  secretly  here, 
out  I  am  going  to  leave  home  in  two  or  three  mouth:*  and  I  shall  be 
perfectly  free  then  to  aot  as  I  please." 

"  You  are  not  going  i. j  jeave  England  ?"  Robert  asked. 

<:  Oh  no !  I  am  only  going  to  pay  a  long-promised  visit  to  some  friends 
in  Essex." 

Robert  started  so  violeutly  as  Clara  Talboys  said  this,  that  she  looked 
suddenly  at  his  face.  The  agitation  visible  there,  betrayed  a  part  of  his 
secret. 

"  My  brother  George  disappeared  in  Essex,"  she  said, 
could  not  contradict  her. 

"  I  am  sorry  you  have  discovered  so  much,"  he  replied.  "  My  position 
becomes  every  day  more  complicated,  e/ery  day  more  painful.  Good- 
by." 

She  gave  him  her  hand  mechanically,  when  he  held  out  his;  but  it 
was  colder  than  marble,  and  it  lay  listlessly  in  his  own,  and  fell  like  a 
log  at  her  side  when  he  released  it. 

'ray  Jose  no  time  in  retin  be  house, :'  he  said  earnestly.     "I 

fear  you  will  suffer  from  this  morning's  work." 

"  Suffer !"  she  exclaimed,  .scornfully.  "You  talk  to  me  of  suffering, 
when  the  only  creature  in  this  world  who  ever  loved  me  has  been  taken 
from  it  in  the  bloom  of  youth.  What  can  there  be  for  me  henceforth 
but  suffering?  What  is  the  cold,  to  me'?"  she  said,  Hinging  back  her 
shawl  and  bearing  her -beautiful  head  to  the  bitter  wind.  "I  would  walk 
from  here  to  London  barefoot  through  the  snow,  and  never  stop  by  the 
if  I  could  bring  him  back  to  life.  WThat  would  I  not  do  to  bring 
him  back?     What  would  I  not  do  V"         x 

The  words  broke  from  her  in  a  wail  of  passionate  sorrow  ;  and  clasp- 
ing her  hands  before  her  face,  she  wept  for  the  first  time  -.hat  day.     The 


LADY  AtTOLEY-  ••  SECRET.  139 

violence  of  her  sobs  shook  he  lean 

again:",'!  lie  trunk  of  a  tr 

.    17;  s|u,  w.,g 

he  had   li  ,ih]0 

-  of  her  as  ■  tiK,y 

had  met  fchi  time. 

"  Pray,  praj  be  calraT"  ho  said  ;  lliay 

both  be  ck  your  brother  may  still  li 

"Oh  !.il 
"  Lei 

hope 

for  nothing  bin 

■•■    you  Cc  ,         help  you. 

She  left  hini  half  bewildere  Inner 

and  the  noble  be u 
ayMOHj  .  and  then  ,   out 

4 

u  help  those  Who  ."'  he 

thought,  "  for  they  will  be1  ry  of  <  reorjee  Tall 


OilAP^  ■>. 

georgb's  letters. 

Pobert  Audlet  did  not  return  t<  ipton,  but  tools  a  ticket  for 

the  til  it  Warehfl  an 

how  or  two  alter  i  ark.  d   hard  and  crjsp  in 

.   Waterloo  Road,  thawed 
by  the  flari    .  itch- 

ors'  si 

■gy 
which  th<  ,ie  cab-man  <  I 

oos  ihs  tine 
■ 

rian.         v 
'•  What   a  pleasant  thii 

' 

in  / 
i 

iiual   cloud  to 


140  LADY   AUDREY'S  SECRET. 

overshadow,  the  brightness  of  his  horizon.     Let  him  do*  this,  and  surely 

ul    when  be  sets  down  the  sum  of 
his  felicity,  and  pitiful  smallness  of"  the  amount.     He  will 

have  enjoyed  hinas'elf  for  a  week  or  ten  days  in  thirty  years,  perhaps. 
In  thirty  years  of  dull  December,  and  blustering  March,  and  showery 
April,  and  dark  November  weather,  there  may  have  been  seven  or  eigne 
glorious  August,  days,  through  which  the  sun' lias  blazed  m  cloudless  ra- 
diance, and  the  summer  breezes  have  breathed  perpetual  balm.  How 
fondly  we  recollect  these  solitary  days  of  pleasure,  and  hope  for  their 
recurrence,  and  try  to  plan  the  circumstances  that  made  them  bright ; 
ig.0,  and  predestinate,  and  diplomatize. with  fate  .for  a  renewal 
Qf  ..the  remembered  joy.  As  if  any  joy  could  ever  be  built  up  out  of 
such  and  surh  c  mstituent  parts  !  As  iF„happiness  were  not  essentially 
iiL.d — a  bright  and  wandering  bird,  utterly  irregular  in  its  migra- 
tions; with  us  one  summer's  day,  and  forever  gone  from  us  on  the  next ! 
Look  at,  marriages,  for  instance,"  mused  Robert,  who  was-  as  meditative 
in  the  jolting  vehicle,  for  whose  occupation  he  was  to  pay  sixpence  a 
mile,  as  if  he  had  been  riding  a  mustang  on  the  wide  loneliness  of  the 
prairies.  "  Look  at  marriages!  Who  is  to  say  which  shall  be  the  ope 
judicious  selection  out  of  the  nine  hundred  and  ninety  nine  mistakes  1 
Who  shall  decide  from  the  first  aspect  of  the  slimy  creature,  which  is  to 
be  the  one  eel  out  of  the  colossal  bag  of  snakes'?  That  girl  on  the  curb- 
stone yonder,  waiting  to  cross  the  street  when  my  chariot  shall  have 
passed,  may  be  the  one  woman  out  of  every  female  creature  in  this  vast 
universe  who  could  make  me  a  happy  man.  Yet  1  pass  her  by — bespat- 
ter her  with  the  mud  from  my  wheels,  in  my  helpless  ignorance,  in  my 
blind  submission  to  the  awful  hand  of  fatality.  If  that  gjrl,  Clara' Tal- 
boys,  had  been  five  minutes  later,  I  should  have  left  Dorsetshire  thinking 
her  cold,  hard,  and  unwomanly,  and  should  have  gone  to  my  grave  with 
that  mistake  part  and  parcel  of  my  mind.  I  took  her  for  a  stately  and 
heartless  automaton  ;  1  know  her  now  to  be  a  noble  and  beautiful  woman. 
What  an  incalculable  difference  this  may  make  in  my  life.  When  I  left 
that  house,  I  went  out  into  6he  winter  day  with  the  determination  of 
abandoning  all  further  thought  of  the  secret  of  George's  death.  I  see 
her,  and  she  forces  me  onward  upon  the  loathsome  path — the  crooked 
byway  of  watchfulness  and  suspicion.  How  can  I  say  to  this  sister  of 
my  dead  friend,  '  I  believe  that  your  brother  has  been  murdered !  I  be- 
lieve that  I  know  by  whom,  but  I  will  take  no  step  to  set  my  doubts  at 
rest,  or  to  conform  my  fears?'  I  cannot  say  this.  This  woman  knows 
half  my  secret;  she  will  soon  possess  herself  of  the  rest,  and  then — and 

then " 

The  cab  stopped  in  the  midst  of  Robert  Audley's  meditation,  and  he 
had  to  pay  the  cabman,  and  submit  to  all  the  dreary  mechanism  of  life, 
which  is  the  same  whether  we  are  glad  or  sorry — whether  we  are  to  be 
married  or  hung,  elevated  to  the  woolsack,  or  disbarred  by  our  brother 
benchers  on  some  mysterious  technical  tangle  of  wrong-doing,  which  is 
a  social  enigma  to  those  outside  the  forum  dofnesticum^oi  the  Middle 
Temple. 


LADI  AUDLfeT'S  8ECB  141; 

We  ar.e  apt  to  baatigry  with  this- cruel  hardness  in  our  life — this  un- 
flinching regularity  in  the  smaller  wheels  und  meaner  mei  f  the 
human  machine,  which  knows  no  stoppage  or  ce  I  O.ugh  the  main- 
spring be  forever  hollow,  and  the  hands  pointing  to  -put;  figures 
upon  a  shattered  dial. 

Who  has  not  felt,  in  the  first  madness  of  sorrow,  an  unn 

:st  the   mute   propriety  of. chair's  and 
Turk,  s,  the  unl  utward  ap] 

existence:     We  want  to  roo  in  a'prinTevafforest, 

ar  their  huge  branches  in  our  convulsive  grasp;  and  the 

utmost  that  we  can  do  for  the  relief  of  our  pai 

chair,  or  smash  a  few  shillings'  worth  of  Mr.  Copeland'a  manufacture. 
Madhouses  are  large  and  only  too  numen 

are  not  larger,  when  we  think  of  how  many  hel]  he's  must, 

beat  their  brains  against  this  hop<  y  of  theo  waid- 

world,  as  compared  with  the  storm  ami  tempest,   the  riot  and  confusion 
within — when  we  remember  how  many  mi  I  tremble   upon  the 

narrow  boundary  between  reason   and  unreason,   mad   to-day  and  sane 
to-morrow,  mad  yesterday  and  sane  to-day. 

Robert  Audley  had  directed  the  cab-man  to  drop  him  at  the  comer  of 
Chancery  Lane,  and  he  ascended  the  brilliantly-lighted  staircase  .'ending 
to  the  dining  saloon  of  The  London,  and  seated   himself  at   <>ne   of*  the 
snug  tables,  with  a  confused  sense  of  emptiness  and  weariness,    rather 
than  any  agreeable  sens, 'ion  of  healthy  hunger.     He  had  come  to  the 
luxurious  eating-house  to  dine,  because  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to 
cat  something  somewhere,  and  a  great   deal   easier  I 
dinner  from  Mr.  Sawyer  than  a  very  bad  one  from  Mrs.  Malony,  whose 
mind  ran  in  one  narrow  channel  of  chops  and  steaks,  only  variable  by 
small  creeks  and  outlets  in   the  way  of"  briled  sole"  or  "biled  mack'- 
rill.'1''     '£\o   solicitous   waiter   tried   in   vain   to  rouse  poor  Robert  to  a 
proper  sense  of  the  sorcmnity   of  the  dinner   question.     He  ratltl 
something  to  the  effect  that  the  man  might  bring  him  anything  he  I 
and  the  friendly   waiter,   who  knev    Robert  as  a  fi   quent  gi 
little  tables,  went  back  Co  his  master  with  a  doleful  . 
Audley,  from  Fig-tree  Court,  was  evidently  out  of  spiiits.     Robert  ate 
his  dinner,  and  drank  a  pint   of  Moselle;  but  he  had  poor  a;  pre<  i 
for  the  excellence  of  the  viands  or  the  delicate  fragrance  of  the  wine. 
The  mental  monologue  still  wen;  on,  and  the  young  philosopher  of  the 
modern  school  was  arguing  the  favorite  modern  question  <>(  the  nothing- 
ness of  everything,  and    the  folly  of  taking   too   much;;'  u;ilk 
upon  a  road  that  led  nowhere,  or  to  compass  a  work  thai  i                hing. 
"  I  accept  the  dominion  of  that  pale  girl,  with  the  statuesque 

the  calm  brown  eyes,"  he  thought.     "  I  recognize  the  power  of  a 
mind  superior  to  my  own.  and  I  yield  to  it,  and  bow  dowa   to  it.     I've 

acting  for  myself,  and  flunking  for  mi  t  few  mi 

and  I'm  tired  of  the  unnatural  business.     I  false  to  tl 

iple  of  my  life,  and  l'v<  for  ray,;fblly.     I  round 

hairs  in  my   h'oad  the  week  before  last,  aud  an  impertinent  crow  has 


142  LAi)Y  AUDLEV^.  SECBfiT. 

planted  a 

He  '"g  at  the 

crumb  he  pondei  m — 

Vhal  the   devil   a:;:  I  "  But  I  ail 

ia  it,  and  I  la- brown- 

Nat  a 
wend'  ion   to   fir  '."tit! 

Man  in -the  it  'always 

a^ernoon  him.!     Bui  mpui- 

siye  heart  and  active  m,  better  than  that.     Who 

of  a  Woman   taking  lire  in  stead  of  sup- 

porting it  as  an  unavo'd.  :cmable  by  its  brevity, 

she  goes  through  it  as  if  it  were  a  pageantJoc  a  procession.  She  dresses 
for'-it,  "and  simpers,  and  grins  stimulates  for  it.     She  pushes  her 

neighbors,  and  struggles  for  a  good  place  in  the  disma)  march ;  she 
elbows,  and  v  >'  prances  Jothe  one  end  of  making 

the  most  of  the  misery.  She  gets  up  early  and  sits  up  late,  and  is  loud, 
and  restless,  and  noisy,  and  unpitymg.  She  drags  her  husband  on  to 
the  woolsack,  or  pushes  him  into  Parliament,  She  drives  him  full  but 
at  the  clear,  lazy  .machinery  of  government,  and  knocks  and  buffets  him 
about  the  wheels,  and  cranks,  and  screws,  and  pulleys;  until  somebody, 
for  quiet's  pake,  makes  him  something  that  she  wanted  him  to  be  made. 
That's  why  incompetent  men  sometimes  sit  in  high  places,  and  interpose 
their  poor,  muddled  intellects  between  the  things  to  be  done  and  the 
people  that,  can  do  them,  making  universal  confusion  in  the  helpless  in- 
nocence of  well-placed  incapacity.  The  square  men  in  the  round  holes 
are  pushed  into  them  by  thei '.  Wive  ;.  The  Eastern  potentate  who  de- 
clared that  W'.mcn  wvere  at  the*  n  of  all  mischief,  should  have  gone 
a  little  farther  and  seen  why  it,  is  so.  It  is  because  women  are  never 
lazy.  They  don't  know  wh,  ;■  quiet.  They  fcre  Semiraraides, 
and  Cleopatras,  and  Jqa-n  of  Arcs,  Queen  Elizabeths,  and  Catharine  the 
Seconds,  and  they  riot  in  battle,  and  murder,  and  clamor,  and  despera- 
tion. If  they  can't  agitate  the4  universe  and  play  at  ball  with  hemispheres, 
they'll  make  mountains  of  warfare  and  vexation  out  of  domestic  mqle- 
hiils,  and  social  storms  in  household  teacups.  Forbid  them  to  hold  forth 
upon  the  freedom  of  nations  and  the  wrongs  of  mankind,  and  they'll 
quarrel  with  Mrs.  Jones  about  the  shape  of  a  mantle  or  the  character  of 
a  small  maid-servant.  To  call  them  the  weaker  sex  is  to  utter  a  hideous 
mockery.  They  are  the  stronger  sex,  the' noisier,  the  more  persevering, 
the  most  self-assertive  sex.  They  want  freedom  of  opinion,  variety  of 
occupation,  do  they?  Let  them  have  it.  Let  them  be  lawyers,  doctors, 
preachers,  teachers.  .  legislators — any  thing  they  like — but  let 
them  be  quiet— if  they  can." 

Mr.  Audley  pushed  his  hauds  through  the  thick  luxuriance  of  his 
straight  brown  hair,  and  uplifted  the  dark  mass  in  his  despair. 

i:  1  hate  women,"  he -thought,  savagely,  "They're  bold,  brazen,  abom- 
inable creatures,  invented  for  the  annoyance  and  destruction  of  their  su- 


LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET.  143 

period.     Look  at  this  busin  oor  George's!     It  lan's 

work  ficin  one  end  her.  *He  marries  a 

casts  him  off  penniless  and/pdrofessionless.     Hd  hears  of  the 

death  and  he  breaks  his  heart — his  go<  d,  honest,  man]  worth  a 

million  of  the  i  i  lumps  \ 

tion  which  beat  in  women's  breasl 

he  is  ;  jain.     AikI  now  I  fi 

ner  by  another  woman,  of  wl  thought   until 

this  day.     And -and   then,"   mused   Mr.   Audley,,  .rather 

"ther  r  too ;  ike's  another  nui 

her  I  know  ;  an  make  liie  do  it,   1   di 

with  me.     But  I'd  much  rathvr  not;  though  she   is   a  de 

generous  thing,  bless  her 

Robert]'  arded   the  waiter  literally.    Th 

barrister  was  very  willing   to   distribu 

among  the  people  who  served  him,  for  he  carried  hi  >  all 

things  in  the  universe*' even  to  the  fpounds,  shilli 

Perhaps  he  was  rather  exceptional  in  this,  as  yon   in;  find 

that  the  philosopher  who  calls  life  an  emptj  p. in 

the  investment  of  hi  - i;  and  rei  re  of 

India  Bonds,  Spanish  Qertificates,  and   Egyptian  Scrip — aa'oontri 
with  the  painful  ui 

The  snug  rooms  in  Fig-tree  Court  seemed  dreary    in   their  ord 
quiet  to  Robert  Audlcy  upon  this  particular  evening.     He  had  no 
nation  for  his  French  novels,  though  there  w  ot  of  uncut  roman- 

•mie  and  sentiment  ed  a  month  before,  waiting  bit 

upon  one  of  th"  lie  took  his  favorite  mews  I 

into  his  fifcvoYite  chair  with  a  sigh. 

"It's  comfortable,  bat  it  stems  so  d d  lonely  to-iiight.  ..If  p 

George  were  sitting  opposite  to  me,  01 — or  even  Geo 
very  like  him-  ;ht  be  a  little  i 

a  fellow's  lived  by  himself  for  eight  o!  . 
com  pal 

He  burst  out  laugl  itly,  as  he  finished  his  . 

"The  idea  of  my  thinking  of  George's  sister,"  he  th 
idiot  I  ai 

The  next  day  s  post  brought  him  a  1< 
which  him.      lie  found  the  little  packet  lying  on   his 

'  rench  roll  wrapped   in  n   by 

me  mlnul  dug  il — n< 

ter  bore,  th 
.<■  knew  that  th 
him  from  that  oh  t  in  that 

| 

mm  Clan  murtttiri 

at  the  name  and  address.     "  1 

Talboys,  most  decidedly  ;  I  recognize  a,  feminine  r(  to  poor 


144  I^DT   AUDLEY'S  RECftl 

. 

George!s  hand  ;  neater  than  his,  and  more  decided  than  his.  but  very  like,. 
■•very  like.'?  .  ..'.-' 

lie  turned  the  letter  over  .  mined  the  seal,   which. -bore  his 

friend's  familiar  cri 

'•  i  wonder  what  si.  mef  he  thought.     "  It's  a  long  letter,  1 

daresay;  she's  the.  kind  of  woman  'who  would  write  a-  long  letter— a 
letter  that  will  urge  me  on,  drive  me  forward,  wrench  me  out  of  myself, 
I've  no  doubt.  (  But  that  Can't  be  helped — so  he) 

tore  open  the  envelope  with  a  sigh  of  resignation.  It  ■contained 
nothing  but  George's  two  letters,  and  a  few  words  written  on  the  flap: 
— ■•  1  send  the  letters';  please  preserve  and  return  them. — C.  T." 

The  letter,  written  from  Liverpool,  told  nothing  of  the  writer's  life 
except  his  sudden  determination  of  starting  for  a  new  world,  to  redeem, 
the  fortunes  that  had  been  ruined  in  the  old.  The  lfttter,  written  almost 
immediately  after  George's  marriage,  contained  a  full  description  of  his 
wife — such  a  description  as  a  man  could' only  write  within  three  weeks 
of  a  love  match — a  description  in  which  every  feature  was  minutely  cat- 
alogued, every  £  race  of  form  or  beauty  of  expression  fondly  dwelt  upon.. 
every  charm  of  manner  lovingly  depicted. 

>ert  Audley  read  the  letter  three  times  before  he  laid  it  down. 
t     "If  George  could  have  known  for  what  purpose  this  description  would 
serve  when  he  wrote  it,"  thought  the  young  barrister,  "surely  his  hand 
would  have  fallen  paralyzed  by  horror,  and  powerless  to  shape  one  syl- 
lable of  these  tender  words." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

RETROGRADE    INVESTIGATION. 

The  dreary  London  January  dragged  its  dull  length  slowly  out.  The 
last  slender  records  of  Christmas  time  were  swept  away,  and  Robert 
Audley  still  lingered  in  town — still  spent  his  lonely  evenings  in  his 
quiet  sitting  room  in  Fig-tree  Court — still  wandered  listlessly  in  the 
Temple  Gardens  on  sunny  mornings,  absently  listening  to  the  children's 
babble,  idly  watching  their  play.,.  He  had  many  friends  among  the  in- 
habitants of  the  quaint  old  buildings  round  him;  he  had  other  friends  far 
away  in  pleasant  country  places,  whose  spare  bedrooms  were  always  at 
Bob's  service,  whose  cheerful  firesides  had  snugly  luxurious  chairs  spe- 
cially allotted  to  him.  But. he  seemed  to  have  lost  all  taste  for  com- 
panionship, all  sympathy  with  the  pleasures  .'and  occupations  of-his  class, 
since  the  disappearance  of  George  Talboys.  Elderly  benchers  indulged 
in  facetious  observations  upon  the  young   man's  pale  face  and  moody 


LADY   AUDLEY'S  SECRET.  145 

manner.  They  suggested  the  probability  of  some  unhappy  attachment, 
some  feminine  ill-usage  as  the  secret  cause  of  the  change.  They  told 
him  to  be  of  good  cheer,  and  invited  him  to  supper-parties,  at  which 
"  lovely  woman,  with  all  her  faults,  God  bless  her,"  was  drunk  by  gentle- 
men who  shed  I  hey  proposed  the  toast,  and  were  maudlin  and 
unhappy  in  their  cups  toward  the  close  of  the  entertainment.  Robert 
had  no  inclination  for  the  wine-bibbing  and  the  ^punch-making.  The 
one  idea  of  his  life  had  become  his  master.  He  Mas  the.  bonden  slave 
of  one  gloomy  thought — one  horrible  presentiment.  A  dark  cloud  was 
broodim  above  his  unble's  house,  and  it  was  his  hand  which  was  to  give 
the  signal  for  the  thunder-clap  and  the  tempest  that  was  to  ruin  that 
noble  life. 

'  "If  she  wjould  only  take  warning  and  run  away,"  he  said  to  himself- 
sometimes.     "Heaven  knows,  I  have  given  her  a  fair  chance.     Why 
doesn't  she  take  it  and  run  away  ?" 

lie  heard  sometimes  from  I  >  I,  sometimes  from  Alicia.     The 

young  lady's  letter  rarely  contained  mop;  than  a  few  curt  lines,  inform- 
ing him  that  her  papa  was  well  ;  and  that  Lady  Andley  was  in  very 
high  spirits,, amusing  herself  in  her  usr.a!  frivolous  manner,  and  with  her 
usual  disregard  for  other  people. 

A  letter  from  Mr.  Marchmonf,  the  Southampton  schoolmaster,  in- 
formed Robert  that  little  Georgey  was  going  on  very  well,  but  that  he 
was  behindhand  in  his  education,  and  had  not  yet  passed  the  intellectual 
Rubicon  of  words  of  two  syllables.  Captain  Maldon  had  called  to  see, 
his  grandson,  but  that  privilege  had  been  withheld  from  him,  in  accord- . 
ance.  with  Mr.  Audley  s  instructions.  The  old  man  had  furthermore 
sent  a  parcu  >J  of  pastry  and  sweetmeats  to  the  little  boy,  which  had  also 
been  rejected  on  the  ground  of  indigestible  and  billiou*  tendencies  in  the 
lea. 

Toward  the  cjosc  of  February,  Robert  received  alettorfrom  his  cousin 
Alicia;  which  hurried  him  one  step  further  forward  toward  his  destiny, 
by  causing  him  to  return  to  the  house  from  which  he  had  been  in  a  man- 
ner exiled  at  the  instigation  of  his  uncle's  wife. 

'  I'.'.;:.  L  eery  ill,"  Alicia  Wrote;  "not  dangerously  ill  thank  God; 
but  confined  to  his  room  by  an  attack  of  low  fever  which  has  succeeded 
a  violent  cold.  Come  and  see  him,  Robert,  if  you  have  any  regard  for 
your  nearest  relations.  He  has  spoken  about  you  several  times;  and  I 
know  he  will  be  glad  to  havr;  you  with  him.  Come,  at  once,  but  •  say 
nothing  about  this  lei 

"  From  your  affectionate  cousin,   * 

;cia."  "  , 

A  sick   and  deadly   terror  chilled  I  idlry's  heart,  as  he.  road 

this  letter — a  vague  yet  hideous  fear,  which  he  daren  not-shape.  into  an/ 
definite  form. 

"  llav'    I  right?"  he  thought,  in  the  first  agony  of  this  new  horror 

<  t  of 
my  doubts,   in  ibieiding  tfiose  I  love  from  sorrow 

1ft 


146  LAl)Y  AUDLEVS  SECRET. 

and  disgrace?     What  shall  I  do  if  I   find  him  ill;  very  ill;  dying  per- 
haps  ;  dying  upon  her  breast?     What  shall  1  do  ?" 

One  course  lay  clear  before  him  ;  and  the  first  step  of  that  course  was 
a  rapid  journey  to  Audley  Court.  He  packed  his  portmanteau  ;  jumped 
into  a  cab;  and  reached  the  railway  station  within  an  hour  of  his  re- 
ceipt of  Alicia's  letter,  which  had  corse  by  the  afternoon  post. 

The  dim  village  lights  .dickered  faintly  through  the  growing  dusk  when 
Eobe.r  reached  Audley.  He  left  his  portmanteau  with  the  station- 
master;  and  walked  at  a  leisurely  pace  through  the  quiet  lanes  that  led 
away  to  the  still  loneliness  of  the  Court.  The  over-arching  trees  streched 
their  leafless  branches  above  his  head,  bare  and  weird  in  the  dusky  light. 
A  low  moaning  wind  swept  across  the  flat  meadow  land,  and  tossed 
those  rugged  branches  hither  and  thither  against  the  dark  grey  sky. 
They  looked  like  the  ghostly  arms- of  shrunken  and  withered  giants 
beckoning  Robert  to  his.  uncle's  house.  They  looked  like  threatening 
phantoms  in  the  chill  winter  twilight,  gesticulating  to  him  to  hasten  upon 
his  journey.  the  long  avenue,  so  bright  and  pleasant  when  the  perfumed 
limes  scattered  their  light  bloom  upon  the  pathway/,  and  the  dog-roso 
leaves  floated  on  the  summer  air,  was  terribly  bleak  and  desolate  in  the 
cheerless  interregnum  that  divides  the  homely  joys  of  Christmas  from 
the  pale  blush  of  coming  spring — a  dead  pause  in  the  year,  in  which 
Nature  seems  to  lie  in  a  tranced  sleep,  awaiting  the  wondrous  signal  for 
the  budding  of  the  tree,  and  the  bursting  of  the  flower. 

A  mournful  presentiment  crept  into  Robert  Audley's  heart  as  he  drew 
nearer  to  his  uncle's  house.  Every  changing  outline  in  the  landscape' 
was  familiar  to  him ;  every  bend  of  the  trees ;  every  caprice  of  the  un- 
trammelled branches ;  every  undulation  in  the  bare  hawthorn  hedge, 
broken  by  dwarf  horse  chestnuts,  stunted  willows,  blackberry  and  hazel 
bushes. 

Sir  Michael  had  been  a  second  father  to  the  young  man,  a  generous 
and  noble  friend,  a  grave  and  earnest  adviser;  and  perhaps  the  strongest 
sentiment  of  Robert's  heart  was  his  love  for  the  grey-bearded  baronet- 
Cut  the  grateful  affection  wals  so  much  a  part  of  himself,  that.it  seldom 
found  an  outlet  in  words,  and  a  stranger  would  never  have  fathomed  the 
depth  of  feeling  -which  lay,  a  deep  and  powerful  current,  beneath  the 
stagnant  surface  of  the  barrister's  character. 

"  What  would  become  of  this  place  if  my  uncle  were  to  die  ?"  he 

thought,   as  he  drew  hearer  to  the  ivied  archway,  and  the  still  water-. 

coldly  gray  in  the  twilight.     "  Would  other  people  live  in  the  old^ 

house,  and  sit  under  the  low. oak  ceilings  in  the  homely  familiar  rooms1?" 

That  wonderful  faculty  of  association,  so  interwoven  with  the  inmost 
fibres  of  even  the  hardest  nature,  filled  die  young  man's  breast  with  a 
prophetic  pain  as  he  remembered  that,  however  long  or  late,  the  day  must 
come,  on  which  the  oaken  shutters  would  be  closed  for  awhile,  and  the 
sunshine  shut  out.  of  the  house  he  lovod.  It  was  painful  to  him  even  to 
remember  this ;  as  it  must  always  be  painful  to  think  of  thenarrow lease 
which  the  greatest  upon  this  earth. can  ever  hold  of  its  grandeurs.  Is  it 
so  wonder  . '  orne  wayfarers  drop  asleep  under  the  hedges  ;  scarce- 


1/ADY  AUDLCY'S  sEUKET.  147 

ly  caring  to  toil  onward  on  a  journey  thath  abiding  ha" 

Is  it  wonderful  that  therft  havo  been  quietistS  in  the  world  ever 
Christ's  religion  was  first  preached  upon    earth?     is   it  strange    that 
there  is  patient  endurance  and  tranquil  rcsignati  expectation  of 

that  which  is  to  come  on  the  further  shore  of  the  dark,  flowing  river?    Is 
it  not  rather  to  be  wondered  that  anybody  should  ever  care  ti  • 
for  greatness' sake ;  for  any  other  reason  than  pure  conscientious 
the  simple  fi  lelity  of  the  servant  who  fears* to  lay  his  talent  by  in 
kin,  knowing  that  indifference  is  near  akin  to  dishonesty  ?     If  E 
Audley  had  lived  in  the  time  of  Thomas  A'Kempis,  he  would  very  i 
have  built  himself  a  narrow  hermitage  amid  sonic  forest  loneliness,  and 
spent  his  life  in  tranquil  imitation   of  the  reputed  author  of  The  Imita- 

■  As  it  was,  Fig-tree  Court  was  a  pleasant  hermitago  in  its 
and  for  breviaries  a  fours,  1  am  asl  say  the  > 

barrister  substituted  Paul  de  Mock  and  Du/nas,  'lis.     But  his  sins  were 
of  so  simply  negative,  a.  been  very  easy  for 

him  to  have  abandoned  (hem  for  negative  virtues. 

Only  one  solitary  light  was  visible  in  the  long  Irregular  range  of  win- 
dows facing  the  archway.  I  under  the  gloomy  shade  of 
the  rustling  ivy,  restless  in  the  chill  moaning  of  the  wind.  'He  recogni- 
sed that  lighted  window  as  the  large  oriel  in  his  uncle's  room.  When 
last  he  had  looked  at  the  old  house  it  had  been  gay  with  visitors,  every 
window. glittering  like  a  low  star  in  the  dusk;  now,  dark  and  silent,  it 
faced  the  winter's  night  like  some  dismal  baronial  habitation,  deep  in  a 
woodland  solitude. 

The  man  who  opened  the  door  to  the  unlooked-for  visitor,  brfghti 
as  he  recognized  his  master's  nephew. 

"Sir  Michael  will   be  cheered  up  a  bit,  sir,  by  the  sight  of  you,"  he 
said,  as  he  ushered  llobert  Audley  into  the  fire-lit  library,  which  set 
desolate  by  reason  of  the  baronet's  easy  chair  standing  empty  on  the 
broad  hearth-rug.     ''Shall  I  bring  you  • 

go  up  stairs?"  Jhe  servant  asked.     "My  lady  and   Miss  Audley 
dined  early  during  my  .master's  illness,  but  I  can  bring  you  anything 
you  would  please  to  take,  sir." 

"I'll   take  nothing  until  I  have  seen  my  uncle,"  Robert  ansWe 
hurriedly  ;  "  that  is  to  say.  if  I  can  see  him  at  once.     He  is  not  too  ill  to 
receive  me,  1  suppose?"  he  added,  anxiously. 

"Oh,  no,  sir — not  too  ill  ;  only  a  little  low,  sir.  This  way,  if  vou 
please." 

He  con..  hor(  ;kcn  sta! 

the  octagon  chamber  in   which  Georg     Talboys  b 
mouths  before  staring  absently  at  my  lady's  portrait.     The  p; 
finished  now,  and  hnug  in  the  post  of  honor  oppo 
Claudes,   PoussiBa,  and    Wouvermans,  wh 
killed  by  the  vivid  coloring  of  the  modern  artist.     Th< 
out  of  that  tangled  glitter  of  golden  hair,   in   which  the  Pi 
delight,  with  a  mocking  smih 

picture.     Two  «->;   three  moment 


148  .LADY  AUDLEt'3  SECRET. 

had  passed  through  my  lady's  boudoir  and  dressing-room,  and  stood  • 
upon  the  threshold  of  Sir  Michael's  room.  The  baronet  lay  in  a  quiet 
sleep,  his  arm  lying  outside  the  bed,  and  his  strong  hand  clapped  in  his 
young  wife's  delicate  fingers.  Alicia  sat  in  a  low  chair  beside  the  broad 
open  hearth,  on  which  the  huge  logs  burned  fiercely  in  the  frosty  atmos- 
phere. The  interior  of  this  luxurious  bed  chamber  might  have  made  a 
striking  picture  for  an  artist's  pencil.  The  massive  furniture,  dark  and 
sombre,  yet  broken  up  and  relieved  here  and  there  by  scraps  of  gilding, 
and  masses  of  glowiug  color;  the  elegance  of  every  detail,  in  which 
wealth  was  subservient  to  purity  of  taste  ;  and  last,  but  greatest  in  im- 
portance, the  graceful  figures  of  the  two  women,  and  the  noble  form  of 
the  old  man  would  have  formed  a  worthy  study  for  any  painter. 

Lucy  Audley,  with  her  disordered  hair  in  a  pale  haze  of  yellow  gold 
about  her  thoughtful  face,  the  flowing  lines  of  her  soft  muslin  dressing- 
gown  falling  in  straight  folds  to  her  feet,  and  clasped  at  the  waist  by  a 
narrow  circlet  of  agate  links,  might  have  served  as  a  modal  for  a  me-' 
dissval  saint,  in  one  of  the  tiny  chapels  hidden  away  in  themooks  and 
corners  of  a  gray  old  cathedral,  unchanged  by  Reformation  or  Crom- 
well ;  and  what  saintly  martyr  of  the  Middle  Ages  could  have*  borne  a 
holier  aspect  than  the  man  whose  gray  beard  lay  upon  the  dark  silken 
coverlet  of  the  stately  bed  1 

Robert  paused  upon  the  threshold,  fearful  of  awaking  his  uncle.  The 
two  ladies  had  heard  his  step?  cautious  though  he  had  been,  and  lifted 
their  heads  to  look  at  him.  My  lady's  face,  quietly  watching  the  sick 
man,  had  worn  an  anxious  earnestness  which  made  it  only  more  beauti- 
ful ;  but  the  same  face,  recognizing  Robert  Audley,  faded  from  its  deli- 
cate brightness,  and  looked  scared  and  wan  in  the  lamplight. 

"Mr.  Audley,"  she  cried,  in  a  faint,  tremulous  voice. 

•'  Hush !"  whispered  Alicia,  with  a  warning  gesture  ;  "  ydu  will  wake 
papa.  How  good  of  you  to  come,  Robert,"  she  added  in  the  same 
whispered  tones,  beckoning  to  her  cousin  to  take  an  empty  chair  near 
the  bed. 

The  young  man  seated  himself  in  the  indicated  seat  at  the  bqttom  of 
the  bed,  and  opposite  to  my  lady,  who  sat  close  beside  the  pillows.  He 
looked  long  and  earnestly  at  the  face  of  the  sleeper;  still  longer,  still 
more  earnestly  at  the  face  of  Lady  Audley,  which  was  slowly  recovering 
its  natural  hues. 

"  He  has  not  been  very  ill,  has  he?"  Robert  asked  in  the  same  key  as 
that  in  which  Alicia  had  spoken. 

My  lady  answered  the  question. 

,:Oh,  no,  not  dangerously  ill."  she  said,  without  taking  her  eyes  from 
her  husband's  face;  "but  still  we  have  been  anxious,  very,  very  anxious." 

Robert  never  relaxed  his  scrutiny  of  that  pale  face. 

"She  shall  look  at  me,"  he  thought;  \l  will  make  her  meet  my  eyes, 
and  I  will  read  her  as  I  have  read  her  before.  She  shall  know  how  use- 
less her  artifices  are  with  me." 

He  paused  for  a  few  minutes  before  he  spoke  again.  The  regular 
breathing  of  the  sleeper,  the  ticking  of  a  gold  bunting  watch  at  the  head 


L6l)\  AUDLEY  8  SECRET.  14^ 

of  the  bed,  and  the  crackling  of  the  burning  logs,  were  the  only  sounds 
that  broke  the  stillness, 

••[  have  no  doubt  you  hive  been  anxious,  Lady  Audley,"  Robert  said, 
after  a  pa  my  lad \  's  eves  us  they  wandered  furtively  to.  his 

face.     '"There  is  no  one  to  whom  my  ■  can  be  of  more  value 

than  to  you.  Your  happiness,  your  prosperity,  your  safety  depend  alike 
upon  his  ex i 

whisper  in  which  be    uttered  t:  Is  was   too  low  to  reach 

the  other  tide  of  the  lere  Alioia 

Luc;.  Audley's  ej  es  met  those  of  the  speaker  with  some  gleam  of  tri- 
umph in  their  light. 

"I  know  thai  id.     "Those  who  strike  me  must  strike  through 

She  pointed  to  the  sleeper  as  she  spoke,  still  looking  at  Robert  Aud- 
ley. i  him  with  her  blue-eyes,  their  brightness  intensified  by 
the  triumph  in  their  glance.  She  defied  him  with  her  quiet  smile — a 
smile  of  fatal  beauty,  full  of  lurking  significance  and  mysterious  mean- 
ing— the  smile  which  the  artist  had  exaggerated  in  his  portrait  of  Sir 
Michael's  wife. 

ert  turned  away   from    the   lovely  face,  and  shaded  his  eves  with 
his  hand  ;   putting  a   barrier  ;   a  screen 

which  baffled  her  penetration  ana  provoked  her  curiosity.  Was  he  still 
watching  her  or  was  he  thinking  ?  and  of  what  was  he  thinking? 

Robert  had  I  1  at  the  bedside  for  upward  of  an   hour  before 

his  uncle  woke.     The  baronet  was  delighted  at  his  nephew's  coming. 

"It  was  very  good  of  you  to  come  to  me,  Bob,"  he  said.  "I  have 
been  thinki  iu  a  good  deal  since   I've  been   ill.     You  and  Lucy 

must  be  good  friends,  you  know,  Bob  ;  and  you  must  learn  to  think  of 
her  as  your  aunt,  sir  :  though  she  is  young  and  beautiful  ■,  and — and— 
you  understand,  eh  ?" 

Robert  grasped  his  uncle's  hand,  but  he  looked  down  gravely  as  ho 
answered —  i 

"I  do  understand  you,  sir,"  he  said,  quietly  ;  "  and  I  give  you  my 
word  of  honor  that  I  am  steeled  against  my  lady's  fascinations.  She 
know.-  as  I  do." 

Lucy  Audley  made  a  little  j  ith  her  pretty  lips. 

"Bah,  yon  sill}' Robert."  she  exclai  you  take  everything  au 

scrieux.     if  ]  (1  rather  too  young  Tor  a  nephew,  it  was 

only  in  my  fear  ol  pie's  foolish  gossip  ;  not  from  any — " 

ated  for  a  moment,  and  escaped  any  conclusion  to  her  sen- 
tence by  the  timely  intervention  of  Mr.  Dawson,  her  late  employer, 
who  ente  his  evening  visit  while  she  was  speaking. 

lie  felt  the  patient's  pulse  ;  asked  two  or  three  questions  ;  pronounced 
i  .proving;  exchanged  a  few  common-place 
:  ks  with  Alicia  and  Lady  An.  leave  the  room. 

Robei  •# 

'■  I  will  light  you  to  th<  •  -e,'*  he  said*,  taking  a  candle  from  one 

ofth'  md  lighting  it  at  the  lamp. 


150  Udft    DUDLEY '3  SECRET. 

*'  No,  no,  Mr.  Audley,  pray  do  not  trouble  \  oneself,"  expostulated 
the  surgeon  ;  "  I  know  rpy  way  very  well  indeed," 

Robert  insisted  ;  and  the  two  men  left  the  room  together.  As  they 
entered   the  octagon  ante-chamber,   the  barrister  pi  ;  shut  the 

door  behind  him.  •  ' 

'•  Will  you  see  that  the  other  door  is  closed,  Mr.  Dawson  V  he  said, 
pointing  to  that  which  opened  upon  the  staircase.  "  I  wish  to  have  fc 
few-moments'  private  conversation  with  yon."  , 

"  ■  Wjth  ranch  pleasure,"  replied  the  surgeon,  complying  with  Robert's 
if  you  are.  at  all  alarmed  about  your  uncle,  Mr.  Audley, 
set  your  n  est.     There  is  no  occasion  for  the  least  u-neasi- 

npss.  Had  his  illness  been  at  all  serious,  I  should  have  telegraphed  im- 
mediately for  the  family  physician/'  ■ 

.    "  1  am  sure  that  you  would  have  done  your  duty,  sir."  answered  Ro- 
ively.     :' But  I  am  not  going  to  speak  of  my  uucle.     1  wish  to 
ask  von  two  or  three  questions  about  another  person.'1 
"Indeed 

•-.-.  person  who  once  live!   in  jjrour  family  as  Miss  Lucy  Graham; 
■rsou  who  is"  now  Lady  Audley." 
Dawson  looked  up  with  an  expression  of  surprise  upon  his  quiet 

"  Pardon  me,  :•.  r  Audley  ,""  he  answered ;  "you  can  scarcely  expect 
mc.v)  answer  any  questions  about,  your  uncle's  wife,  without  Sir  Mi- 
chael oi!  .  I  can  understand  no  motive  which  can 
ask  such  questions — no  worthy  motive,  at  least."  He 
looked  severely  at  the  young  man,  as  much  as  to  say,  i;  You  have  been 
:  in  Jove  with  your  uncle's  pretty  wife.  sir.  and  you  want  to  make 
me  a  go-between  in  some  treacherous  flirtation;  but  it  won't  do,  sir;  it 
won't  do." 

"lalwaj  ed  the  lady  as  Miss  .Graham,  sir,"  he  said,  "and  I 

esteem  her  doubly  as  Lady  Audley — not  on  account  of  her  altered  po- 
sition, but  because  she  is  tin!  wife  of  one  of  the  noblest  men  in  Christen- 
dom."    . 

"  You  cannot  respect  my  uncle  or  my  uncle's  honor  more  sincerely 
than  1  do,"  answered  Robert.     "  1  have  no   unworthy  motive  for  the 
dons  1  am  about  to  ask ;  and  you  muit  answer  them." 
\fustf"  echoed  Mi*.  Dawson,  indignantly. 
es  ;  you  are  my*  uncle's  friend.  •  ir  was  at  your  house  he  met  the 
woman  who  is  now  his  wife.     She  called  herself  an  orphan.   I  believe, 
and  enlisted  his  pity  as  well  as  his  admiration  in   her  behalf.     She  told 
him  that  she  stood  alone  in  the  world,  did  she  not? — without  friend  or 
relative*.     This  was  all  I  could  ever  learn  of  her  antecedents." 

'•  What  -  ou  to  wish  to  know  more  ?"  asked  the  surgeon. 

•:  A  very  terrible   reason,"  answered  Robert  Audley.     "  For  some 

ive  struggled   with  doubts  and  suspicions  which  have 

•wibitte'red  my  life.  They  have  grown  stronger  every  day;  and  they 
wijl  not  be  set  at  rest  by  the  common-place  sophistries,  and  the  shallow, 
arguments  with  which  men  try  to  deceive  themselves,  rather  than  be- 


.-  -    Mil    -•"<■--  IRET.  151 

i 
lieve  that  which  of  all  things  upon  earth   they  most  tear  to  belie 
do  not  think  that  the  woman  who  bears  my  uncle's  name,  is  worthy  to 
be  his  wife.     In;,  v  wrung  her.     Heaven  grant,  that  it  is  so.     But  if  I 
do,  the  fatal  chain  of  circumstantial  evidence  never  yet  linked  its< 
closely  about  :  ■  nt  person.     1  wish  to  set  my  dou  -  it,  ov 

— or  to  confirm  my  fears.     There  is  bufj  one  manner  in  which  1  i 
this.     1  inusl  trace  the  life  of  m\  .  iie  back" 

carefully,  from  this  night  to  a  period  of  six  years  ago.  This  is  the 
twenty  fourth  of  February,  jlfty-nine.     1  Want  to  know  i  >rd  of 

her  lite  between  to  night,  and  the  Febru  \r\  of  th<  v. three/' 

"And  your  motive  is  a  worthy  . 

"Yes,  i  wish  to  clear  her  from  a  very  dreadful  suspicion." 
■    "  Which  exists  only  in  your  mind  ?:' 

"And  in  the  mind  of  one  other  person."  * 

"May  1  ask  who  that  person 

'N<>.  Mr.  Di  :   Robert  decisively;  "I  cannot  n 

any  thing  more  than  what  I  have  already  told  you.  I  am  a  very  irre- 
solute, vasodilating  man  in  most  thirds.  In  this  matter  1  am  compelled 
to  be  decided.     1   repeat  oiji  that  I  must,  know  the  history  of 

Lucy  Graham's  lite.  It  _\  ou  refuse  to  help  me  to  the  small  extent  in 
your  power,  I  will  find  others  who  will  help  me.  Painfu!  as  it  would 
become,  I  will  ask  my  uncle  for  the  information* which  you  would  with- 
hold, rather  than  be  baffled  in  the  first  step  of  my  investigation." 

Mr.  Dawson  was  silent  for  some  minutes. 

"1  cannot  express  how  much  you  have  astonished  and   alarmed  me, 
Mr.  Audley,"  he  said.     "I  can  tell  you  so  little  about,  Lady  Audley's 
antecedents,  that  it  would   be  mere  obstinacy   to  withhold   the   : 
amount  of  information  I  possess.     1  ha\e  always  considered  your  ui. 
■wife  one  of  the  most  amiable  of  women.     I  cu nnot  bring  myself  to  thir.k 
her  otherwise.    "It  would  be  an  uproo  ie  of  the  strongest  con- 

victions of  my  life  were  I  compelled  to  think  her  otherwise.  You  wish 
to  follow  her  lii  trd  from  the  present  hour  to  the  year  fifty-th 

"I  do." 

"She  was  married  to  your  uncle  last  June  twelvemonth,  in  the  Mid- 
summer of  fifty -seven.  She  had  lived  in  my  house,  a  little  more  than 
thirteen  months.  She.  became  a  member  of  my  household  upon  the 
fourteenth  of  May.  in  the  year  fifty-six." 

"And  she  came,  to  you ?" 

From  a  school  at  Brompton;   a  school  kept  by  a  lady  of  the.  name 
of  Vincent,     i  .  Vincent's  strong  n  ;■•  that  induced 

me  to  receive  Miss  Graham  into  my  family  witiu.»ut  ,.:i\  more  especial 
knowledge  of  her  anteo 

"Did  you  see  this  Mrs.  Vincent?" 

"I  did  not.      I  advertised   tor  a 

aent.     In  her  letter  she    referred   ni  s. 

the  proprietress  of  a  school    in  which   she  was  thei 
teacher.     My  time  is  always  .-o  fuily  occupied,  thai  I  was  | 
the  necessity  of  a  da)  -  losa  it   going  from  Audi  ■ .  quire 


152  "     LADY  AUliL£Y'3  SECEF1 

about  the  young  lady's  qualifications.  I  looked  for  Mrs.  Vincent's  name 
in  the.  Directory,  found  it,  Concluded  that  she  was  a 'responsible  person, 
and  wrote  to  her.  Her  reply  was  perfectly  satisfactory  : — Miss  Lucy 
Graham  was  assiduous  and  conscientious  ;  as  well  as  fully  qualified  for 
the  situation  1  offered,  f  accepted  this,  reference,  and  1  had  no  cause  to 
regret  what  may  have  been  an  indiscretion.  •  And  now,  Mr.  Audley,  I 
have  told  you  all  that  I  have  the  power  to  tell:" 

,c  Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  give  me  the  address  of  this  Mrs.  Vincent?" 
asked  Robert,  taking  out  his  pocket-book. 

"  Certainly  ?     She  was  then  living  at  No.  9  Crescent  Villas,  Brampton." 

"Ah,  to  b<  sure,"  muttered  Mr.  Audley,  a  recollection  of  last*  Sep- 
tember dashing  suddenly  back  upon  him  as  the  surgeon  spoke*.  "Cres- 
cent Villas — yes,  I  have  heard  the  address  before  from  Lady  Audley 
herself.  This  Mrs.  Vincent  telegraphed  to  my  uncle's  wife  early. in  last' 
September.  She  was  ill — dying,  1  believe — and  sent  for  my  lady  ;  but 
had  removed  from  her  old  house  and  was  not  to  be  found." 

"  Indeed !     I  never  heard  Lady  Audley  mention  the  circumstance." 

''Perhaps  not.  It  occurred  while  1  was  down  here..  Thank  you,  Mr. 
Dawson,  for  the  information  which  you  have  so  kindly  and  honestly 
given  me.  It  takes  me  back  two  aud  a  half  years  in  the.  history  of  my 
lady's  life ;  but  I  have  still  a  blank  rjf  three  years  to  fill  up  before  I  can 
exonerate  her  from  my  terrible  suspicion.     Good-evening."' 

Robert  shook  hands  with  the  surgeon,  and  returned  to  his  uncle's  room. 
JHe  had  been  away  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Sir  Michael  had  fallen 
asleep  once  more,  and  my  lady's  loving  hands  had  lowered  the  heavy 
curtains  and  shaded  the  lamp  by  the  bedside.  Alicia  and  her  father's 
wife  were  taking  tea  in  Lady  Audley's  boudoir,  the  room  next  to  the 
antechamber  in  which  Robert  and  Mr.  Dawson  had  been  seated. 

Lucy  Audley  looked  up  from  her  occupation  among  the  fragile  china 
cups  and  watched  Robert  rather  anxiously  as  he  walked  softly  to  his 
uncle's  room  and  back  again  to  the  boudoir.  She  looked  very  pretty 
and  innocent,  seated  behind  the  graceful  group  of  delicate,  opal  china 
and  glittering  silver.  Surely  a  pretty  woman  never  looks  prettier  than 
when  making  tea.  The  most  feminine  and  most  domestic  of  all  occu- 
pations imparts  a  magic  harmony  to  her  every  .movement,  a  witchery. 
to  her  every  glance:  The  floating  mists  from  the  boiling  liquid  in  which 
she  infuses  the  soothing  herbs,  whose  secrets  are  known  to  her  alone, 
envelop  her  in  a  cloud  of  scented  vapor,  through  which  she  seems  a  so- 
cial fairy,  weaving  potent  spells  with  Gunpowder  an.d  Bohea.  At  the 
tea-table  she  reigns  omnipotent,  tmapprdaehable.  What  do  men  know 
of  the  mysterious  beverage'?  Read  iiow  poor  Hazlitt  made  his  tea,  and 
shudder  at  the  dreadful  barbarism.  How  clumsily  the  wretched  crea- 
tures attempt  to  assist  the  witch  president  of  the  tea-tray ;  how  hopeless- 
ly they  hold  the  kettle,  how'continually  they  imperil  the  frail  cups  and 
saucers,  or  the  taper  hands  of  the  priestess.  To  do  away  with  the  tea- 
table  is  to  rob  woman  of  her  legitimate  empire.  To  send  s  couple  of 
hulking  men  about  among  your  visitors,  distributing  a  mixture  made  in 
the  housekeeper's  room,  is  to  reduce  the  most  social  and  friendly  of  ce- 


V   AIL....  ■  153 

remonies  to  a  formal  giving  out  of  rations.     Better  •  influenoo 

of  the  teacups  and  racefully  wi< 

^appropriate  power  snatched  at  the  point  of  thi 
willing,  sterner  sex.     Imagine  all  the  women  ol  ated  tothe 

high  level  of  masculine  intellect 

pearl  powder  and  Mrs.  Raehi  i>  :    above  taking  the  pains  to  be 

pretty;  above  making  them.-. 

cruelly  scandalous   and  which   ev<  men 

:at  in  :  and  what  a  dreary,  utilitarian,  ugly  life  the  sterner  sex  must 
lend. 

My  lady  was  by  no  means  ftronj  .ny  diamonds  upon 

her  white  fingers  flashed  hither  and  thither  i  the  tea-;. 

she  bent  her  pretty  head  over  the  marvel!*'  .  of  sandal- 

wood i  r,  with  as  life  held  no  higher  pur- 

pose than  the  inTusicn  6f  Bohea. 

"You'll  take  .a  cup' of  tea.  with  us,  Mi-.  Anile;.  ?"  she  asked,  pausing 
with  the  teapot  in  her  hand  to  look  up  at  Robert,  who  was  standing  near 
the  d 

"  If  you  please.'' 

"But  you  have  not  dined,  perhaps?  Shall  I  ring  and  tell  them  to 
bring  you"  something  a  little  more  substantial  than  biscuits  aud  trans* 
parent  bread  and  butter?" 

"  No,  thank  you,  Lady  Audley.  I  took  somelunch  before  I  left  town. 
I'll  trouble  you  for  nothing  but  a  cup  of  tea." 

He  seated  himself  at  the  little  table  and  looked  across  it  at  his  cousin 
Alicia,  who  sat  with  a  book   in   lier   lap,   and*  had  the  air  of  being  very 
much  absorbed  by  its  pages.     The  bright  brunette  cbmplexio! 
its  glowing  crimson,  and  the  animation  of  the  young 
suppressed — on  account  of  her  father's  illni  ibt,  Robert  thought. 

" Alicia f  my  dear,"*the  barrister  said,  after  a  very  lata 
plation  of  his  cousin,  "you're  not  !  '11." 

Mis*  \udley  shrugged  her  shoulders,  but  did  not  condescend  to  lift 
her  eyes  from  her  b 

"Perhaps  not,"  she  an-       •  mslw     "  What  does  ii  mat- 

ter?    I'm  growing  a  philosopher  of  yoni  school,  Robert  Audley.     What 
it  matter?     Who  enres  whether  I  an  Hi  ?" 

"  What  a  spit-fire  she  is,"  thought  t!i  v  his 

in  was  angry  with  him  whi 

"  Yon  needn't  pitch  into  .a  fellow  bc<  ion. 

Alicia,"  hi  ifully.     "As  to  nob  mr  health, 

Miss  Audh  'bright  smile. 

"  Sir  Harry  Towers  can  Audley  returned  to  her  book  with  a 

frown. 

'-W 
during  wh: 

"  Okannca  md  CI 

'A  novel?" 

"  Yes." 


L54  iAbY  AUDI  BET. 

"Who  is  it  by?" 

"The  author  of  Follies  and  Faults"  answered  .Alicia,  still  persuing 
her  study  of  the  romance  upon  her  lap. 

"Is  it  interesting?" 

Miss  Audley  puised  up  her  raouLh  and  shrugged  hei-  shoulders. 

"  Not  particularly,  ■•  id. 

"Then  I  think  you  might  have  better   manner.?  than  to  read  it  while 
your  first  cousin  is  sitting  opposite  you,"  observed  Mr.  Audley,  with 
some  gravity,  "especially  as,  he  has  only  come  to  pay  you  a  flying  visit, 
.and  will  be  off  tomorrow  morning." 

'•  To-morrow  morning  !':  exclaimed  my  lady,  looking  up  suddenly. 

Though  the  look  of  joy  upon  Lady  Audley  Vface  was  as  brief  as  a 
flash  of  lightning  on  a  summer  sky,  it  was  not  unperceived  by  Robert. 

"  Yes,:'  he-said  ;  "I  shall  be  obliged  to  run  up  to  Loudon  to-morrow 
on  business,  but  I  shall  return  the  next  day,  if  you  will  allow  me,  Lady 
Audley,  and  stay  here  till  my  uncle  recovers.'' 

"  But  yoti  are  not  seriously  alarmed  about  him,  are  you?"  asked  my 
lady  anxiously.     "  You  do  not  think  him  very  ill?" 

•io,"  answered   Robert.     "Thank  Heaven,  1  think   there  is  not  thy 
slightest  cause  for  apprehension." 

My  lady  sat  silent  for  a  few  moments,  looking*  at  the  empty  teacups 
with  a  prettily  thoughtful  face — a  face  grave  with  the  innocent  serious- 
ness of  a  musing  child. 

"  But  you  were  closeted  such  a  long  time  with  Mr.  Dawson  just. now,'* 
she  said,  after  this  brief  pause.  "  I  was  quite  alarmed  at  the  length  of 
your  conversation.     Were  you  talking  of  Sir  Michael  all  the  time?". 

"No;  not  all  the  time."'    . 

My  lady  looked  down  at  the  teaoups  once  more. 

"  Why,  what  could  you  find  to  say  to  Mr.  Dawson,  or  he  to  say  to 
you  ?"  she  asked,  after  another  pause.  "  You  are  almost  strangers  to 
each  other." 

"Suppose  Mr.  Dawson  wished  to  consult  me  about  some  law  busi- 
ness." 

"  W?.->  it  that?"  cried  Lady  Audley,  eagerly. 

"  It  would  be  rather  unprofessional  tc  tell  you  if  it  were  so,  my  lady," 
answered  Robert,  gravely. 

My  lady  bit  her  lip,  and  relapsed  into  silence.  Alicia  threw  down  her 
book,  and  watched  her  cousin's  preoccupied  face.  He  talked  to  her  now 
and  then  for  a  few  minutes,  but  it  was  evidently  an  effort  to  him  to 
arouse  himself  from  his  reverie. 

"Upon  my  word,  Robert  Audley,  you  are  a  very  agreeable  com- 
panion," exclaimed  Alicia  at  length,  her.  rather  limited  stock  of  patience 
quite  exhausted  by  two  or  three  of  these  abortive  attempts  at  conversa- 
tion. "Perhaps  the  next  time  you  come  to  tlfcebSpurt  you  will  be  good 
enough  to  bring  your  mind  with  you,     B,  jimate  ap- 

pearance, I  should  imagine  that  you  had  left  your  intellect,  such  as  it 
is,  somewhere  in  the  Temple.  You  were  never  one  of  the  liveliest  of 
people,  but  latterly  you  have  really  grown  almost  unendurable.     1  sup- 


i.A'D'.    &UDLJ£¥'l3  SKC  \.uO 

poso  you  are  in  lovo,  Mr.  Audley,  and  arc  thinking  of  the  honored  < 
of  your  affections." 

He  was  winking  of  Clara  Talboys'  uplifted  face,  sublime  in  its  unutter- 
able grief;  of  her  impassioned  words  ;  still  ringing  in  his  ears"as  do;; 
when  they  were  fir:  be  saw  her  looking  at  him  wit] 

it  brown  eyes.     Again  be  heard  that  solemn  question,  "  Shall  you 
or  1  find  my  brpther'6 murderer?"     And   he   was  in  Essex;  in  the  little 
which   he    firmly    b  ■       never  de- 

parted. He  was  on  the  spot  at  m  bicli  all  i  ecord  of  his  friend's  life  ended 
as  suddenly  as  a  story  ends  when  the  reader  shuts  the  book.  And 
could  he  withdraw  now  from  the  investigation  in  which  he  found  hi. 
involved  1  Could  he  stop  no*  For  any  consideration  I  No;  athou- 
sarm  times  no !  Not  with  the  image  of  that-griefstrioken  Face  imprinted 
on  his  mind.  Not  with  the  accents  of  that  earnest  appeal  ringing  on 
his  ear. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

60  FAR  AKD  HO  FARTHER. 

Robert  left  Audley  the  next  morning  bj  an  early  train,  and  reached 
Shoreditch  a  little  after  nine  o'clock.  1  did  not  return  to  his  chambers, 
but  called  a  cab  and  dr  ■  t  to  Crescent  Villas,  West  Bi 

He  knew  that  he  should  fail  in  finding   lb  s  lady  be  went  to  seek  at  this 
address,  as  his  uncle  had'  failed  a  few  gbt  it 

ble  to  obtain   some  clue  to  the  w  residence,  in 

spite  of  Sir  Michac  ess. 

Irs.  Vincent  was  in  a  dying  -  i  ding"  to  '  I  mes- 

\i        I  "Iff  do  find   hei  .st  succeed   in 

ering  wle 
He  The  houses  ware 

f  brick  and  mortar 
■arcs  led  a 
into  i 

■ 

•that 
awful  a  new  and 

unfii'  ,jing 

g 
bert 

g 
I  terraces,  trying  to  find  the  Villa 


156  LADY  . 

frowning  down  upon  him,  black  and  venerable^  amid  groves  of  virgin 
plaster,  undimmed  by  time  of  smoke. 

But  having  at  last  succeeded  in  reaching  his  destination,  Mr.  Aud 
alighted  from  the  cab,  directed  the  d river  to   wait  for  him  at  a  certain. 
corner,  ar.-  upon  his  voyage  of  discovery,  , 

•'  If  I  were  a  distinguish  -  1  could  not  do  this  sort  of  thing,"  he 

;hjt ;  "tny  time  would  be  worth  a  guinea  or  so  a  minute,  and  I 

should  be  retained  in  the  great  case  of  Hoggs  vs.  Boggs,  going  forward 

this  very  day  before  a  special  jury   at   Westminster   Hall.     As  it  is,  I 

can  afford  to  be  pate 

He  inquired  for  -Mrs.  Vincent  at  the  number  which  Mr.  Dawson  had 

given  him.     The  maid  who  opened  the  door  had  never  heard  that  lady's 

;  but  atrer  going  to  inquire- of  her  mi  he   returned   to  W\l 

t  that  Mrs.  Vincent  had  jived    there,   but   that  she   had   left  two 

^months  before  the  present  occupants  had  entered  the  house,  "and  missus 

has  been  here  fifteen  months,''''  the  girl  added,  explanatorily. 

•  "  But  you  cannot  tell  mc  where  she  went  on  leaving  here?"     Robert 

asked  despond ii 

•  q,  sir;  missus  says  she  believes  the  lady  failed,  and  that  she  left 
sudden  jikc,  and  didn't  want  her  add  known  in  the  neighborhood." 

Mr.  Audley  felt  himself  at  a  stand-still  once  more.  If  Mrs.  Vincent 
had  left  the  place,  in  dent,  she  had  no  doubt  scrupulously  concealed  her 

There  was  little  hope,  then,  of  learning  her  address  from»- 
any  of  the  tiadespeoplc  ;  and  yet  other  hand,  it  was  just  possi- . 

bio  th  of  her  shar  might  haye  made  it  their  busi- 

ness t  a  'liter's  ret. 

He  looked  about  him  for  the  nearest  shops,  and  found  a  baker's,  a 
stationer's,  and  a  fruiterer's  a  few  paces  from  the  Crescent.  Three  emp- 
ty-Looking,  pretentious  shops,  with,  plate  glass  windows,  and  a  hopeless 
air  of  gentility. 

Lie  stopped  at  the  baker's,  who  called  himself  a  pastrycook  and  con- 
fectioner, and  exhibited  some  specimens  of  petrified  sponge-cake  in  glass 
Duties,  and  sonae  hi  lev  arts,  covered  with  green  gai 

"She  must  have  b  '      ert  thought,  as  he  deliberated  be- 

fore the  baker's  shop;  "  and  she  is  likely  Id  have  bought  it  at  tb,e  hand- 
iest place.     I'll  try  ihe  baker." 

The  baker  was- standing  behind  hiscoun'er,  disputing  the  items  of  a 
bill  with  a  shabby-genteel  young  woman.  'He  did  not  trouble  himself 
to  attend  .to  Robert  Audley  till  he- had  settled  the  dispute,  but  he  look- 
ed up  as  he  was  receipting  the  bill  aud  asked  "the  barrister- what  he 
pleased  tu  want. 

"Can  you  tell  me  the  address  of  a  Mrs.  Vincent,  'who  lived  at  No.  9 
Crescent  Villas,  a  year  and  a-hajfago1?"  Mr.  Audley  inquired,  mildly. 

"  No,  I  can't,"  answered  ihe  baker,  growing  \ary  red  in  the  face  and 

speaking  in  an  unnecessarily  loud  voice;  "and   what's  more,   I  wish  I 

could.     That  lady  owes  me  upward  of  eleven  pound  for  bread,  and  It's 

.ii  1  can  atlurd  to  lose.     If  anybody  can  tell   me  whuio 

she  lives,  I  shall  be  much  obhged  to  em  for  so  doing." 


LADY  AUDLEY'3  SECRET.  157 

Robert  Audley  shrugged  h's  shoulders  and  wished,  (he' man  c 
ng.     He  felt  ihnl  his  dfc  e  lady's  when  ould 

involve  more  trouble  than  he  had  expected.  He  might  have  l&tiked  for 
Mrs.  Vincent's  r,.ime  in  the  Post-Office  Directory,  but  ho  thought  it 
scarcely  likely  that  a  lady  who  \\ns  on  such  uncomfortable  terms  with  her 
creditors  would  afford  them  so  easy  a  m<  lining  her  residf 

"  If  the  baker  can't  find  nor,  how  should  /find  her?"  he  thought,  • 
pairing!  v.     "Jfafesolut  Live,  and  energetic- < 

as  the  baker,  fail  to  achieve  this  business,  how  can  n  fymphatjc  Wrcieh 
Uke  me  hope  to  accomplish  it    *      •      re  the  linker  has   been  defea 
what  ■  ous  folly  il  would  be  for  me  to  try  to  succeed." 

Mr.  Audley  abandoned  him  elf  i  the 
walked  slowly  back  toward  the  corner  at  which  he  had  left  the  cab! 
About  half-way  between  the  baker's  shop  and  tbi's  corner,  be  was  arrest- 
ed by  hearing  a  woman's  ste]  •  ;  his  .side,  and  a  woman's  \ 
asking  him  to  slop.  He.  turned  and  found  himseli  face  to  face  with  the 
shabbily. di  roan  whom  he  had  left  settling  her  account  with  the 
baker. 

"Eh.  what?''  he  asked  vaguely.     "    ari  I  do  any  thing  for  you,  ma'am  1 
"Hoes  Mrs.  Vincent  owe,  yon  money,  too?" 

uYes,  sir,"  the  woman  answered,  with  a  semi-genteel   mlnner  which 
corresponded  with  the  shabby  gentility  of  her  dress;  "Mrs.  ^ 
in  my  debt;  but  it  isn't  that,  sir.     I — 1  want  to  know,  please,  what 

business  may  be  with  her — because — because " 

•  "You  can  give  me  her  address  if  you  choose,  ma'am.  That's  what 
you  mean  to  say,  isn't  it?" 

The.  woman  hesitated  a  little,  looking  rather  suspi  Robert. 

"You're  not  connected  with — with  the   tally  business,  are.  you,  • 
she  asked,  after  considering  Mr.  Audley's  personal  appearance  for  a  few 
moni' 

"The  u'hat,  ma'am?"  cried  the  young  barrister,  staring  aghast  at  his  * 
questioner. 

"I'm  sure  1  beg  your  pardon,  sir.''  exclaimed  tile  little  woman,  seeing 
that  she  had  m  very  awful  mistake.     "I  thought   \ 

have  been,  you  know.    Some  of  the  gen tldi  >llect  for  th< 

shops  o  very  handsome;  and  I  know  Mrs.  Vincent 

deal  of  mone]  I 

Robert  Audley  laid  his  hand  upon  tl  rm. 

f  dear  madam,"  he  said,  '"I  want  to  know  Vin- 

cent's affairs.     So  far  from   being  -  ,  call  the 

business,  1  have  not  the  remotest  idea  what  you  mean  by  tl 
You  may  mean  I  conspiracy;  you  may 

of  taxes.     Mrs.  Vin  me  any  money,  however  ; 

she  may  stand  witii  that,  awl  iw  her  in   111/ 

but  I  wish  to  see  hi  r  to-dhy  forathe  simple  pur] 
few  very  plain  quo 

ive  ma  her  ad- 
.  you  will  b^  6  •    ' 


158  ^ADY   AUDLEY 'b  SEGRET. 

-He  took  out  his  eard-case  and  handed  a  card  to  the  woman,  who  ex- 
amined the  slip  of  pasteboard  anxiously  before  she  spoke  again. 

"  I'm  sure  you  look  and  speak  like  a  gentleman,  sir,'1  she  said,  after  a 
brief  pause,  "and  I  hope  you  will  excuse  me  if  I've  seemed  mistrustful 
like;  but  pGor  Mrs.  Vincent  has  had  dreadful  difficulties,  and  I'm  the 
only  person  hereabouts  that  she's  trusted  with  her  addresses.  I'm  a 
dressmaker,  sir,  and  I've  worked  for  her  for  upward  of  six  years,  and 
though  she  doesn't  pay  me  regular,  you  know,  sir,  she  gives  me  a  'little 
money  on  account  now  and  then,  and  (  get  on  as  well  as  I  can.  I  may 
tell  you  where  she  lives,  then,  sir?  You  haven't  deceived  me,  have 
your     ■ 

"  On  my  honor,  no." 

"  Well,  then,  sir,"  >aid  the  dressmaker,  dropping  her  voice  as  if  she 
thought  the  pavement  beneath  her  feet,  or  the  iron  railings  before  the 
houses  by  her  side,  might  have'ears  to  hear  her,  "it's  Acacia  Cottage, 
Peckham  Grove.     I  took  a  dress  there,  yesterday  for  Mrs.  Vincent." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Robert,  writing  the  address  in  his  pocket-book. 
"  I  am  ve'ry  much  obliged  to  you,  and  you  may  rely  upon  it,  Mrs.  Vin- 
cent shall  not  suffer  any  inconvenience  through  me." 

He  lifted  his  hat,  bowed  to  the  little  dressmaker,  and  turned  back  to 
the  cab. 

"  I  have  beaten  the  baker  at  any  rate,"  he  thougnt.  "  Now.  for  the 
second  stage,,  travelling  backward,  in  my  lady's  life." 

The  drive  from  Brompton  to  the  Peckham  Road  was  a  very  long  one,  ■ 
and  between  Crescent  Villas  and  Acacia  Cottage  Robert  Audley  had 
.ample  leisure  for  reflection.  He  thought  of  his  uncle,  lying  weak  and  ill 
in  the  oakroom  at  Audley  Court.  He  thought  of  the' beautiful  blue 
eyes  watching  Sir  Michael's  slumbers ;  the  soft,  white  hands  tending  on 
his  waking  wants;  the  low  musical  voice  soothing  his  loneliness;  cheer- 
ing and  consoling  his  declining  years.  What  a  pleasant  picture  it  might 
have  been,  had  he  been  able  to  look  upon  it  ignorantly,  seeing  no  more 
than  others  saw,  looking  no  farther  than  a  stranger  could  look.  But 
with  the  black  cloud  which  he  saw,  or  fancied  he  saw,  brooding  over  it, 
■what  an  arch  mockery,  what  a  diabolical  delusion  it  seemed. 

Peckham  Grove — pleasant  enough  in  the  summer-time — has  rather 
a  dismal  aspect  upon  a  dull  February  day,  when  the  trees  are 'bare  and 
leafless,  aud  the  little  gardens  desolate.  Acacia  Cottage  bore  small  token 
of  the  fitness  of  its  nomenclature  and  faced  the  road  with  its  stuccoed 
walls  sheltered  only  by  a  couple  of  tall,  attenuated  poplars.  But  it 
announced  that  it  was  Acacia  Cottage  by  means  of  a  small  brass-plate 
upon  one  of  the  gate-posts,  which  was  sufficient  indication  for  the  sharp- 
sighted  cabman,  who  dropped  Mr.  Audley  upon  the  pavement  before 
the  little  gate. 

Acacia  Cottage  was  much  lower  in  the  social  scale  than  Crescent  Vil- 
las, and  the  small  maid-servant  who  came  to  the  low  wooden  gate  and 
parleyed  with  Mr  Audley,  was  evidently  well  used  to  the  encounter. of 
relentless  creditors  across  the  same  feeble  barrkade. 

She  murmured  the  familiar  domestic  fiction. of  uncertainty  regarding 


LADY  AUDLEY'3  SECRET.  159 

her  mistress's  whereabouts  ;  and  told    R  that  if' be  would  please  to 

state  his  name  and  business,  she  would  go  and  see  if  Mrs.  Vincent 
at  homo. 

Mr.  Audley  produced  a  card,  and  wrote  in  pencil  under  his  own  name 
— "A  connexion  of  the  late  Miss  Graham." 

Ha  directed  the  small  servant  to  cany  this  card  to  her  misfreas,  and 
quietly  awaited  the  result. 

The  servant  returned  in  about  live  minutes  with  the  k<  rate. 

Her  mistress  was  at   home,   she    told  Robert  as  she  admitted  him,  and 
would  be  happy  to  see  the  gentleman.        .  ♦ 

TJ  e  square  parlor  into  which  Robert  was  ushered  bore  in  e\  i 

of  ornament,  in  every  article  of  furniture,  the  unmistakable  stamp  o 
species  of  poverty  which  is  most  comfortless  because  it  is  never  stations 
ary.    The  ■  who  furnishes  his  tiny  sitting-roora  with  half-a-dozen 

cane  chairs,  a  Pembroke-   tabic,   a  Dutch  clock,  a  tiny  lookingg] 

:ery  shepherd  and  shepherdess,  and  a  set  of  gaudily -japanned  iron 
tea  trays,  makes  the  most  of  his  limited  possessions,  and  generally  con- 
•  trivet  to  oret  some  degree  of  comfort  out  of  them;  but  the  lady  whb 
loses  the  handsome  furniture  o(  the  house  she-  is  compelled  to  abandon 
and  encamps  in  some  smaller  habitation  with  the  shabby  remainder — 
bought  in  by  some  merciful  fricrfti  at  the  sale  of  her  effects — carries  with 
•her  an  aspect  o(  genteel  desolation  and  tawdry  misery  not  easily  to  be 
paralleled  in  wretchedness  by  any  other  phase  which  poverty  can  as- 
sume. 

The  room  which  Robert  Audley  surveyed  was  furnished  with  the 
shabbier  scraps  snatched  from  the  ruin  which  had  overtaken  the  impru-# 
dent  schoolmistress  in  Crescent  Villas.  A  cottage  piano,  a  eheffonier, 
six  sizes  ooo  large  for  the  room,  and  dismally  gorgeous  in  gilded  mould- 
ings that  were  chipped  and  broken;  a  slinvlegged  card-table,  placed  in 
the  post  of  honor,  formed  the  principal  pieces  of  furniture.  A  thread- 
bare patch  of  Brussels  carpet  covered  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  formed 
an  oasis  of  roses  and  lilies  upon  a  desert  of  shabby  green  drugget. 
Knitted  curtains  shaded  the  windows,  in  which  hung  wire  baskets  of  hor- 
rible-looking plants  of  the  cactus  species',  that  grew  downward,  like  seme 
demented  class  of  vegetation,  whose  prickly  and  spider-like  members 
had  a  fancy  for  standing  on  their  heads. 

The  green-baize,  covered  cord  tabic  was  adorned  with  gaudily-bound 
annuals  or  books  of  beauty,  placed  at  right  angles;  but  Robert  Audley 
did  not  avail  himself  of  these  literary  distractions.  He  seated  hifl 
upon  one  of  the.  rickety  chairs,  and  waited  patiently  for  the  advent  <>i" 
ther  school-mistress.  He  could  hear  the  hum  of  half-a-dozen  voices  in  a 
room  near  him,  and  the  jingling  harmonies  of  a  set  of  varations  in  Deh 
Conie,  upon  a  piano,  whose  every  wire  was  evidently  in  the  last 
of  attenuation. 

He  had  waited  for  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when  the  door  was 
opened,  and  a  lady,  very  much  droned,  and  with  the,  setting  sunlight  of 
faded  beauty  upon  her  face,  entered  the  room. 

"Mr.  Audley,  I  presume,"  she  said,  motioning  to  Robert  to  reseat 


160  LADY  AUJMJEY'S  SECRET. 

himself,  and  placing  her-                .  asy  chair  opposite  to  him.    "  You  will 
a  me,  I  hope,  for  detaining  yq  .■; ;  my  duties " 

"It  is  I  who  should  apologize  for  intruding  upon  you,"  Robert  answer- 
ed, politely  ;  "but  my  motive  {'<<r  calling  upon  you  is  a  very  serious 
one,  and  must  plead  ray  excuse.  You  remember  the  lady  whose  name 
I  Wrote  upon  my  cai 

"'Perfectly,"    ■ 

"  May  1  ask  how  much  you  know  o*"  that  lady's  history  sfnee  her  de- 
paiture  from  your  hous6  V  . 

•■  Very  little.  In  point  of  fact,  scarcely  anything  at  all.  Miss  Graham, 
Lbelievo.  obtained  a  situation  in  the  family  of  a  surgeon  resident  in 
Essex.  Indeed,  it  was  1  who  recommended  her  to  that  gentleman.  I 
have  never  heard  from  her  since  she  left  me." 

"But  you  have  communicated  with  her?"  Robert  asked,  eagerly.   ' 

"  No,  indeed." 

Mr.  Audley  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  the  shadow  of  gloomy 
thoughts  gathering  darkly  on  his  face. 

ay  1  ask  if  you  sent  a  telegraphic  dispatch  to  Miss  Graham,  early  .. 
in  last  September,  slating  that  you  were  dangerously  ill,  and  that  you 
wished  to  see  her  I" 

Mrs.  Vincent  smiled  at  her  visitorVquestion. 

"I  had  no  occasion  to  send  such  a  message,"  she'dfcid;  "  I  have  never 
been  seriously  ill  in  my  life." 

Robert  Audley  paused  before  he  asked  any  further  questions,  and 
scrawled  a  few  pencilled  words  in  his  note-book. 

"If  I  ask  you  a  few  straightforward  questions  about  Miss  Lucy  Gra- 
ham, madam,"  he  said;  "will  you  do  me  the  favor  to  answer  them 
without  asking  my  motive  in  making  such  inquiries'?" 

"  Most  certainly,"  replied  Mrs.  Vincent,  "  I  know  nothing  to  Miss 
Graham's  disadvantage,  and  have  no  justification  for  making  a  mystery 
of  the  little  I'do  know." 

"  Then  will  you  tell  me  at  what  date  the  young  lady  first  came  to  you  V* 

Mrs.  Vincent  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  She  had  a  pretty  smile — 
the  frank  smile-  of  a  woman  who  has  been  admired,  andwho  has  too  long 
felt  the  certainty  of  being  able  to  please,  to  be  utterly  subjugated  by  any 
lly  misfortune. 
g  not  the  least  use  to  ask  me,  Mr.  Audley,"  she  said.  "  I'm  the 
most  careless  creature  in  the  world;  I  never  did,  and  never  could  re- 
member dates*  though  I  do  all  in  my  power  to  impress  upon  my  girls 
how  important  it  is  for  their  future  welfare  that  they  should  know  when 
"William  the  Conqueror  began  to  reign,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing.  But 
I  haven't  the  remotest  idea  when  Miss  Graham  came  to' me, 'although  I 
know  it  was  ages  ago,  for  it  was  the  very  summer  I  had  ray  peach-colored 
silk.     But  we  must  consult  Tonks — Tonks  is  sure  to  be  right." 

Robert  Audley  wondered  who  or  what  Tonks  could  be  ;  a  diary,  per- 
haps, or  a  memorandum  book — some  obscure  rival  of  Letsome. 

Mrs.  Vincent  rang  the  bell,  which  was  answered  by  the  maid-servant 
who  had  admitted  Robert. 


L.ABT   Al'iXLLY'a  SSCRB1  lgl 

"Ask  Miss  Tonka  to  come  to  me,""  she  said.  "  I  vratat  to  see  her  par- 
ticularly." 

In  less  than  five  minutes  Miss  Tonks  made  her  appearance.  She  was 
wintry  and  rather  frost-bitten  in  aspect,  and  seemed  to  bring  cold  air  in 
the  scanty  folds  of  hei  sombre  merino  dress.  She  was  no  age  in  particu- 
lar, and  looked  as  if  she  had  never  been  younger,  and  would  never  grow 
older,  but  would  remain  forever  working  backward  and  forward  in  her 
narrow  gro<  ve,  like  somo  self-feeding  machine  for  the  instruction  of 
young  ladies. 

"Tonks,  my  dear,"  said   Mrs.  Vincent,   without  ceremony,  "this  gen- , 
tlemau  is  a  relative  of  Miss  Graham's.  remember  how  long  it 

is  since  she  came  to  us  at  Crescent  Villas?" 

"She  came  in  August.  1854,"  answered  Miss  Tonk  k  it  was 

the  eighteenth  of  August,  but  I'm  not  quite  s  isn't  the  . 

teenth.     1  know  it  was  on  a  Tuesday." 

hank  you,  Tonks;  you  are  a  most  invaluable  darling."   cxcla 
Mrs.  Vincent,  with  her  sweetest  smile.     It  was,  perhaps,  because  of  the 
invaluable  nature  ol  ik's  services  that  she  had  received  no  re- 

muneration whatever  from  her  employer  for  the  last  three  or  four  years. 
Mrs.  Vincent  might  have  hesitated  to  pay  her,  from  very  contempt  for 
the  pitiful  nature  of  the  stipend  as  compared  with  the  merits  of  the 
teacher. 

"  Is  there  any  thing  else  that  Tonks  or  I  can   tell  you,  Mr.  Audi 
asked  the  school-mistress.     "  Tonks  has  a  far  hotter  n  amory  than  I  ha 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  Miss. Graham  came  from  when  she  entered 
your  household?"-     Robert  inquired. 

"Not  very  precisely,"  answered  Mrs.  Vincent.     "I  have  a  vague  na- 
tion that  Miss  Graham  said   something  about  coming  from  the  sei 
but  she  didn't  say  where,  or  if  she  did  I  have  forgotten  it.     'J 
Miss  Graham  tell  you  where  she  came  from  V 

"Oh,  no!"  replied  Miss  Tonks,  shaking  her  grim  little  head  signinV 
canity.     "  Miss  Graham  told  me  nothing;  she  was  too  clever  for  that. 
She  knew  how  to  keep  her  own   secrets,  in   :rnite  of  her  innocent  ■ 
and  her  curly  hair,"  Miss  Tonks  added,  spitefully. 

"  You  think  she  had  secrets,  then  ?"     Robert  asked,  rather  eagerly. 

"  I  know  she  had,"  replied  Miss  Tonks  with  frosty  decision  ;  "all  man- 
ner of  secrets,  /wouldn't  have  engaged  such  a  person  as  junior  teacher 
in  a  respectable  school,  without  so  much  as  one  word  of  recommendation 
from  any  living  creature." 

"  You  had  no  reference,  then,  from  Miss  Graham  ?"  asked  Robert,  ad- 
dressing Mrs.  Vincent. 

"  No,"  the  lady  answered,  with  some  little  ettbarraa  ment :  "  !  • 
that.     Miss  Graham  waived  the  q  i  could  not  do  les9 

than  waive  the- question  ofreferew  with  her] 

she  told  me.  and   she  wanted  to  find  a  hon  from  all  the  p. 

she  had  ever  known.     Sic    t 

pcple.     She  had  vount:   n 

and  she  wanted  to  escape  from  her  troubles.     How  could  i  r  for 

11 


162    .  *-ADY  AUDLET'S  SECRET. 

a  reference  under  these  circumstances'?  especially  when  I  saw  that  .she. 
was  a  perfect  lady.  You  know  that  Lucy  Graham  was  a  perfect  lady, 
Tonks,  and  it  is  very  unkind  of  you  to  say  such  cruel  things  about  my 
taking  her  without  a  reference."   . 

"  When  people  make  favorites,  they  are  apt  to  be  deceived  by  them," 
Miss  Tonks  answered,  wijth  icy  sent'oiuiousness,  and  with  no  very  per- 
ceptible relevance  to  the  point  in  discussion. 

"  I  never  made  her  a  favorite,  you  jealous  Tonks,"  Mrs.  Vincent  an- 
swered reproachfully.  "  I  never  said  she  was  as  useful  as  you,  dear. 
You  know  I  never  did." 

,  "  Oh,  no !"  replied  Miss  Tonks,  with  a  chilling  accent,  "you  never 
said  she  was  useful.  She*  was  only  ornamental ;  a  person  to  be  shown 
off  to  visitors,  and  to  play  fantasias  on  the  drawing-room  piano/' 
•  "  Then  you  can  give  me  no  clue  to  Miss  Graham's  previous  history1?" 
Robert  asked,. looking  from  the  schoolmistress  to  her  teacher.  He  saw 
very  clearly  that  Miss  Tonks  bore  an  envious  grudge  against  Lucy  Gra- 
ham— a  grudge  which  even  the  lapse  of  time  had  not  healed. 

"  If  this  woman  knows  anything  to  my  lady's  detriment,  she  will  tell 
it,"  he  thought.     "She  will  tell  it  only  too  willingly." 

But  Miss  Tonks  appeared  tp  know#  nothing  whatever ;  except  that  Miss 
Graham  had  sometimes  declared  herself  an  ill-used  creature,  deceived  by 
the  baseness  of  mankind,  and  the  victim  of  unmerited  sufferings',  in  the 
way  of  poverty  and  deprivation.  Beyond  this,  Miss  Tonks  could  tell 
nothing;  and  although  she  made  the  most  of  what  she  did  know,  Robert 
very  soon  sounded  the  depth  of  her  small  sjtock  of  information. 

"I  have  only  one  more  question  to  ask,"  he  said  at  last.  "  It  is  this. 
Did  Miss  Graham  leave  any  books  or  knick-knacks,  or  any  kind  of  pro- 
perty whatever,  behind  her,  when  she  left  your  establishment V 

"  Not  to  my  knowledge,"  Mrs.  Vincent  replied. 

"Yes,"  cried  Miss  Tonks,  sharply.  "She  did  leave  something.  She 
left  a  box.  It's  up-st air's  in  my  room.  I've  got  an  old  bonnet  in  it. 
Would  you  like  to  see  the  box1?"  she  asked,  addressing  Robert. 

"  If  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  allow  me,"  he  answered,  "  I  should  very 
much  like  to  see  it." 

•'•  I'll  fetch  it  down,"  said  Miss  Tonks.     "  It's  not  very  big." 

She  ran  out  of  the  room  before  Mr.  Audlcy  had  time  to  utter  any  po- 
lite remonstrance. 

"  How  pitiless  these  women  are  to  each  other,"  hejthought  while  the 
teacher  was  absent.  "This  one  knows  intuitively  that  there  is  some 
danger  to  the  other  lurking  beneath  my  questions.  She  sniffs  the  coming 
trouble  to  her  fellow'  female  creature,  and  rejoices  in  it,  and  would  take 
;>ains  to  help  me.  What  a  world  it  is,  and. how  these  women  take 
life  out  of  her  hands.  Helen  Maldon,  Lady  Audley,  Clara  Talboys,  and 
now  Miss  Tonks — all  womankind  from  beginning  to  end." 

:  diss  Tonks  re-entered  while  the  young  barrister  was  meditating  upon 
uamy'of  her  sex,.     She  carried  a  dilapidated  paper-covered  bonnet- 
.  hich  she  submitted  to  Robert's  inspection.  t 

Mr.  Audley  knelt  down  to  examine  the  scrape  of  railway  labels  and 


LADY  AlTDLEY'S  SECRET.  1G3 

addresses  which  were  pasted'here  and  there  upon  the  box.  It  had  been 
battered  upon  a  great  many  different  lines  of  rsfilway,  and  had  evidently 
travelled  considerably.  Many  of  the  labels  had  been  torn  off,  but  frag- 
ments of  some  of  them  remained,  and  upon  one  yellow  scrap  of  paper 
Robert'  read  the  lei  lers  TUR1. 

"The  box  has  been  to  Italy,"  he  thought.  "Those  arc  the  first  four 
.letters  of  the  word  Turin,  and  the  label  is  a  foreign  one." 

The  only  direction  which  had  no!  sither  defaced  or  torn  away 

was  the  last,  which  bore  the  name  of  Miss  Graham,  passenger  to  i  ioudo 
Looking  very  closely  at  tins  label,  Mr.  Audley  discovered  that  it  ha 
been  pasted  over  another. 

"  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  let  me  have,  a  little  water  and  a  piece  of 
sponge  V  he  said.  "  I.  want  to  get  off  this  upper  label.  Believe  roe  that 
I  am  justified  in  what  I  am  doing." 

Miss  Tonks  ran  out  of  the  room,  and  returned  immediately  with  aba- 
sin  of  water  and  a  spouu 

"Shall  I  take  off  the  label?';  she.  asked. 

"No,  thank  you;"  Robert  answered  coldly.  "I  can  do  it  very  well 
myself." 

He  damped  flhc  upper  label  several  times  before  ho  could  loosen  the 
edges  of  the  paper;  but  after  two  or  three  careful  attempts  the  moisten- 
ed surface  peeled  off,  without  injury  to  the  underneath  address. 

Miss  Tonka  could  not  contrive  to  read  this  address  across  Robert's 
shoulder,  though  she  exhibited  considerable  dexterity  in  her  endeavors  to 
accomplish  that  object. 

Mr.  Audley  repeated  his  operations  upon  the  lower  label,  which  he 
removed  from  the  box,  and  placed  very  carefully  between  two  blank 
leaves  of  his  pocket-book. 

"  I  need  intrude  upon  you  no  longer,  ladies,"  he  said,  when  he  had 
done  this.  "  I  am  extremely  obliged  to  you  for  having  afforded  me  all 
the  information  in  your  power.     I  wish  you  good  morning." 

Mrs.  Vincent  smiled  and  bowed,  murmuring  some  complacent  conven- 
tionality about  the  delight  she  had  felt  in  Mr.  Audley's  visit.  Miss 
Tonks,  more  observant,  stared  at  the  white  change  which  had  come  over 
the  young  man's  face  since  he  had  removed  the  upper  label  from  the  box. 

Robert  walked  slowly  away  from  Acacia  Cottage.  "If  that  which  I 
have  found  to-day  is  no  evidence  for  a  jury,"  he  thought,  "it  is  surely 
enough  to  convince  my  uncle  that  he  has  married  a  designing  and  infa- 
mous woman." 


164  LAX>Y  AUDLEY'*  SECRET. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

BEGINNING  AT  THE  0THEK*  END.     , 

Robert  Audley  walked  slowly  through  the  leafless  grove,  under  the 
bare  and  shadowless  trees  in  the  grey  February  atmosphere,  thinking  as 
he  went  of  the  discovery  he  had  just  made. 

i£I  have  that  in  my  pocket-book,"  he  pondered,  "which  forms  the  con- 
necting link  between  the  woman  whose  death  George  Talboys  read  of 
in  the  Times  newspaper  and  the  woman  who  rules  in  my  uncle's  house. 
The  history  of  Luctf  Graham  ejads  abruptly  on  the  threshold  of  Mrs. 
Vincent'-;  school.  She  entered  that  establishment  in  August,  1854. 
The  schoolmistress  and  her  assistant  can  tell  me  this,  but  they  cannot 
tell  me  whence'she  came.  They  cannot  give  me  one  clue  to  the  secrets 
of  her  life  from  the  day  of  her  birth  until  the  day  she  enrered  that  house. 
I  can  go  no  further  in  this  backward  investigation  of  my  lady's  antece- 
dents. What  am  I  to  do,  then,  if  I  mean  to  keep  my  promise  to  Clara 
Talboys  ?" 

He  walked  on  for  a  few  paces  revolving  this  question  in  his  mind, 
with  a  darker  shadow  than  the  shadows  of  the  gathering  winter  twilight 
on  his  face,  and  a  heavy  oppression  of  mingled  sorrow  and  dread  weigh- 
ing down  his  heart. 

t:  My  duty  is  clear  enough,"  he  thought — "  not  the  less  clear  because 
it  is  painful — not  the  less  clear  because  it  leads  me  step  by  step,  carry- 
ing ruin  and  desolation  with  me,  to  the  home  I  love.  1  must  begin  at 
the  other  end — I  must  begin  at  the  other  end,  and  discover  the  history 
of  Helen  Talboys  from  the  hour  of  George's  departure  until  the  day  of 
the  funeral  in  the  churchyard  at  Ventnor." 

Mr.  Audley  hailed  a  passing  hansom,  and  drove  back  "to  his  cham- 
bers. 

He  reached  Fig-tree  Court  in  time  to  write  a  few  lines  to  Miss  Tal- 
boys, and  to  post  his  letter  at  St.  Martin's-le-Grand'offbefore  six  o'clock. 

"  It  will  save  me  a  day,"  he  thought,  as  he  drove  to  the  General  Post- 
t)Ci:e  with  this  brief  epistle. 

He  had  written  to  Clara  Talboys  to  inquire  the  name  of  the  little  sea- 
port town  in  which  George  had  met  Captain  Maldon  and  his  daughter ; 
for  in  spite  of  the  intimacy  between  the  two  young  men,  Robert  Audley 
knew  very  few  particulars  of  his  friend's  brief  married  life. 

From  the  hour  in  which  George  Talboys  had  read  the  announcement 
of  his  wife's  death  in.  the  columns  of  the  Times,  he  had  avoided  all  men- 
tion of  the  tender  history  which  had  been  so  cruelly  broken,  the  familiar 
record  which  had  been  so  darkly  blotted  out. 

There  \jfas  so  much  that  was  painful  in  that  brief  story  ?    There  was 


LABY  AU»LST"S  iGCflMCI  1G5 

such  bitter  self  reproach  involved   in   the  recollection   of  tha 
which  must  have  seemed  so  cruel  to  her  who  waited  and   watch 
home  !     Robert  Audley  comprehended  this,  and  he  did  not  wonder1  at 
his  friend's  silence.     The  sorrowful  story  had  been  bacitly  avoided  by 
both,  and  Robert  was  as  ignorant  of  the  unhappy   history  of  thra 
year  in  his  schoolfellow's  life  as  if'  they  had  never  lived  together  in  friend- 
ly companionship  in  those  Bnug  Temple  chambers. 

The  letter  written  to  Miss  Talboys  by  her  brother  George  within  a 
month  of  his  marriage,  was  dated  Harrow-gate.     It  was  at  Harrow 
therefore,  Kobert  concluded,  the  young -couple' spent  their  honeymoon.  4 

Robert  Audley  had  requested  Clara  Talboys  to  telegraph  an  an 
to  his  question,  in  order  to  avoid  the  loss   of  a   day   in  the  accon 
Went  of  the  investigation  he  had  d  to  perform. 

The  telegraphic  answer  reached  Fig-tree  Court  before  twelve  o'clock 
the  next  day. 

The  name  of  the  seaport  town  was  Wildernsea,  Yerkshire. 

Withjn'an  hour  of  the  receipt  of  this  message,  Mr.  Audley  arrived  at 
the  King's  cross  station,  and  took  his  ticket  for  Wildernsea  by  an  ex- 
press train  that  started  at  a  quarter  before  two. 

The  shrieking  engine  bore  him  on  the  dreary  northward  journey, 
whirling  him  over  desert  wastes  of  flat  meadow-land  and  bare  corn-fields, 
faintly  tinted  with  fresh  sprouting  grceu.  This  northern  road  was 
strange  and  unfamiliar  to  the  young  barrister,  and  the  wide  expanse  of 
the  wintry  landscape  chilled  him  by  its  aspect  of  bare  loneliness.  The 
knowledge  of  the  purpose  of  his  journey  blighted  every  object  upon 
which  his  absent  glances  fixed  themselves  for  a  moment ;  only  to  win- 
der wearily  away  ;  only  to  turn  inward  upon  that  far  darker  picture  al- 
ways presenting  itself  to  his  anxious  mind. 

It  was  (huh  when  the  train  reached  the  Hull  terminus,  but  Mr.  Aud- 
ley "s  journey  was  not  ended.  Amidst  a  crowd  of  porters  and  scattered 
heaps  of  that  incongruous  and  heterogeneous  luggage  with  which  travel- 
lers encumber  themselves,  he  was  led,  bewildered  and  half  asleep,  to  an- 
other train,  which  was  to  convey  him  along  the  branch  line  thai  awept 
past  Wildernsea,  and  skirted  the  border  of  the  German  Ocean. 

Half  an  hour  after  leaving  Hull,  Robert  felt  the' briny  freshness  of  the 
sea  upon  the  breeze  that  blew  in  at  the  open  window  of  the  carriage,  and 
an  hour  afterward  the  train  stopped  at  a  melancholy  station,  built  amid 
a  sandy  desert,  and  inhabited  by  two  or  three  gloomy  officials,  one  of 
whom  rang  a  terrific  peal  upon  a  harshly  clanging  bell  as  the  train  ap- 
proached. 

Mr.  Audley  was  the  only  passenger  who  alighted  at  ths  dismal  sta- 
tion. The  train  swept  on  to  gayer  scenes  before  the  barrister  had  time 
to  collect  his  scattered  senses,  or  to  pick  up  the  portmanteau  which  had 
been  discovered  with  some  difficulty  amid  a  black  cavern  of  luggag»  only 
illuminated  by  one  lantern. 

"I  wonder  whether  settlers  in  the  backwoods  of  America  feel  as  soli- 
tary and  strange  as  I  feel  to-night?"  he  thought,  as  he  Btared  hopelessly 
about  him  in  the  darkness, 


166  LADT  AUDREY'S  SECRET, 

.  He  called  to  onc'of  the  officials,  and  pointed  to  hia  portmanteau. 

"Will  you  carry  that  to  the  nearest  hotel  for  niel"  he  asked — "that 
is  to  say,  if  I  can  get  a  good  bed  there." 

The  mau  laughed  as  he  shouldered  the  portmanteau. 

"You  could  get  thirty  beds,  I  dare  say,  sir,  if  you  wanted  'em,''  he 
said.  "  We  aint  over  busy  at  Wildernsea  at  this  time  o'year.  This 
way,  sir." 

The  porter  opened  a  wooden  dqor  in  the  station  wall,  and  Ro 
Audley  found  himself  upon  a  wide  bowling-green  of  smooth  grass,  which 
surrounded  a  huge  square  building,  that  loomed  darkly  on  him   t i : ■ 
the  winter's  night,   its  black  solidity  only  relieved  by  two   lighted  win- 
dows, far  apart  from  each  other,  and  glimmering  redly  like  beacons  on 
the  darkness. 

"  This  is  the  Victoria  Hotel,  sir,"  said  the  porter.  "You  wouldn't 
believe  the  crowds  of  company  wo  have  down  here  in  the  summer.*' 

In  the  face  of  the  bare  grass-plat,  the  tenantless  wooden  alcoves,  and 
the  dark  windows  of  the  hotel,  it  was  indeed  rather  difficult  to  imagine 
that  the  place  was  ever  gay  with  merry  people  taking  pleasure  in  the 
bright  summer  weather;  but  Robert  Audley  declared  himself  willing  to 
believe  any  thing  the  porter  pleased  to  tell  him,  and  followed  his  guide 
meekly  to  a  little  door  at  the  side  of  the  big  hotel,  which  led  into  a  com- 
fortable bar,  where  the  humbler  classes  of  summer  visitors  were  accom- 
modated'with  such  refreshments  as  they  pleased  to  pay  for,  without  run- 
ning the  gunntlet  of  the  prim,  white  waistcoated  waiters  on  guard  at  the 
principal  entrance. 

But  there  were  very  few  attendants  retained  at  the  hotel  in  this  bleak 
February  season,  and  it  was  the  landlord  himself  who  ushered  Robert 
into  a  dreary  wilderness  of  polished  mahogany  tables  and  horsehair  cush- 
ioned chairs,  which  he  called  the  coffee  room. 

Mr.  Audley  seated  himself  close  to  the  wide  steel  fender,  and  stretched 
his  cramped  legs  upon  the  hearth-rug,  while  the  landlord  drove  the  pdker 
into  the  vast  pile  of  coal,  and  sent  a  ruddy  blaze  roaring  upward  through 
the  chimney. 

"  If  you  would  prefer  a  private  room,  sir "  the  man  began. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Robert,  indiiTerently ;  "  this  room  seems  quite 
private  enough  just  now.  If  you  will  order  me  a  mutton  chop  and  a 
pint  of  sherry,  I  shall  be  obliged." 

"  Certainly,  sir." 

"  And  I  shall  be  still  more  obliged  if  you  will  favor  me  with  a  few 
minutes'  conversation  before  you  do  so." 

"With  very  great  pleasure,  sir,"  the  hmdlord  answered,  good-natured- 
lv.  "We  see  so  very  little  company  at  this  season  of-the  year,  that  we 
ate  only  too  glad  to  oblige  those  gentlemen  who  do  visit  us.  Any  in- 
formation which  I  can  afford  you  respecting  the  neighborhood  of  Wil- 
dernsea, and  its  attractions,"  added  the  landlord,  unconsciously  quoting 
a  small  hand-book  of  the  watering-place  which  he  sold  in  the  bar,  "I 
shall  be  mo6t  happy  to " 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  know  anything  about  the  neighborhood  of  Wil- 


LADY   A (JDLEY'S  SECRET.  167 

dcrnsca,"  Interrupted  Robert,  with  a  feeble  protest  against  the.  landlord's 
volubility.  '•  1  want  to  ash  you  a  few  questions  about  sonic  people  who 
oncu  lived  here." 

The  landlord  bowed  and  smiled,  with  an  air  which  implied  bis  readi- 
ness to  i  phies  of  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  Jit:  le  sea 
if  required  by  Mr.  Audiey  to  do  so. 

•     "  How   many    years  have  you  lived  here  ?"'  Robert  asked,  taking  his 
memorandum-book   from    his   pocket.     "  Will   it  annoy   wuiflmake 
of  your  replies  to  my  questions?"      w  ' 

"Not  at  all,  sir,"  replied  the  landlord,  with  a  pompous  enjoyment  of 
.the  aii' of  solemnity  and  importance  which  pervaded  this  business.     "Am 

information  which  1  can  afford  that  is  likely  to  beof  ultimate  value " 

es,  thank  you,"  Robert  murmured,  interrupting  the  flow  of  wordaj 
''You  have  lived  here " 

"  Six  years,  sir." 

'■Since  the  year  fifoy-thre  i 

"Since  November,  in  the  year  fifty-two,  sir.  I  was  in  business  -<t 
Hull  prior  to  that  time.  This  house,  was  only  completed  in  the  October 
before  I  entered  it.") 

"Do  you  remember  a  lieutenant  in  the  navy,  on  half-pay,  I  believe, 
at  that  lime,  called  Maldon  I" 

"  Captain  Maldon,  bhp?" 

"Y>  i  onlv   called   Captain   Maldon.     I  see  you  do  remember 

him:" 

"Yes,  sir.  Captain  Maldon  was  one  of  our  best  customers.  He  used 
to  spend  his  evenings  in  this  very  room,  though  the  walls  were  damp  at 
that  time,  and  we  weren't  able  to  paper  the  place  lor  nearly  a  twelve- 
month afterward.  His  daughter  married  a  young  officer  that  came  hero 
with  his  regiment,  at  Christinas  time  in  fifty-two.  They  were  married 
here,  sir,  and  they  travelled  on  the  Continent  for  six  months,  and  came 
back  here,  again.  But  the  gentleman  ran  away  to  Australia,  and  left  (he 
lady  a  week  or  two  after  her  baby  was  born.  The  business  made  quite 
a  sensation  in  Wildernsea,  sir,  and  Mrs. — Mrs. — I  forget  the  name " 

"  Mrs.  Tai boys,"  suggested  Robert. 

"  To  be  sure,  sir,  Mrs.  Talboys.  Mrs.  Talboys  was  very  much  pitied 
by  the  Wildernsea  folks,  sir,  1  was  going  to  say,  for  she  was  very  pretty, 
and  had  such  nice  winning  ways  that  she  was  a  favorite  with  everybody 
who  knew  her." 

m  you  tell   me  how  long  Mr.  Maldon  and  his  daughter  remained 
at  Wildernsea  after  Mr.  Talboys  left  them';'*  Robert  asked. 

"Well — no.   sir,"  answered   the   landlord,   after   a  few  moment 
liberation.     "I  can't  say  exactly  how  long  it  was.     I  know  Mr.  Mi 
used  to  sit  here  in  this  very  parlor,  and  tell  people  how  badly  his  daughter 
had  been  treated,  and  how  he'd  been  d<  ceivefl  by  a  young  man  he'd  put 
so  much  confidence  in  ;  Knt  I  can't  say   how  long  it  was  before  be 
Wildernsea.     Ihit  Mrs.  Bark&tpjb  could  tell  you,  sic,"  added  the  landlord, 
briskly. 

"Mrs.  Barkamb!" 


168  f^BY   ALLEY'S  S£Cii£T. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Bark  am  b  is  the  person  vrho  owns  No.  17  North  Cottages, 
the  house  in  which  Mr.  Maldon  and  his  daughter  lived.  She's  a  nice, 
civil-spoken,  motherly  woman,  sir,  and  I'm  sure  she'll,  tell  you  anything 
you  may  want  to  know." 

•Thank  you,  I  will  call   upon  Mrs.  Baikamb  to  morrow.     Stay — one 
more  question.     Should  you  recognize  Mrs.  Talboys  if  you  were  to  see 
■ 

".  Certainly,  sir.  As  sure^s  I  should  recognize  one  of  my  own  daugh^ 
ters."     ■  " 

Robert  Audley  wrote  Mrs.  1'arkamb's  address  in  his  pocket-book,  ate 
his  solitary  dinner,  drank  a  couple  of  glasses  of  sherry,  smoked  a  cigar, 
and  then  retired  to  the  apartment  in  which  a  fire  had  been  lighted  for  his 
comfit. 

lie  soon  fell  asleep,  worn  out  with  the  fatigue  of  hurrying  from  place 
to  place  during  the  last  two  days  ;  but  his  slumber  was  not  a  hea-vy  one, 
and  he  heard  the  disconsolate  moaning  of  the  wind  upon  the  sandy  wastes, 
and  the  long  waves  rolling  in  monotonously  upon  the  flat  shore.  lid 
ling  with  these  dismal  sounds,  the  melancholy  thoughts  engendered  by 
his  joyless  journey  repeated  themselves  in  never- varying  succession  in 
the  chaos  of  his  slumbering  brain,  and  made  themselves  into  visions  of 
things  that  never  had  been  and  never  oduld  be  upon  this  earth,  but  which 
had  some  vague  relation  to  real  events,  remembered  by  the  sleeper. 

In  those  troublesome  dreams  he  saw  Audley  Court,  rooted  up  from 
amidst  the  green  pastures-  and  the  shady  hedgerows  of  Essex,  standing 
bare  and  unprotected  upon  that  desolate  northern  shore,  threatened  by 
the  rapid  rising  of  a  boisterous  sea,  whose  waves  seemed  gathering  upward 
to  descend  and  crush  the  house  he  loved.  As  the  hurrying  waves  rolled 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  stately  mansion,  the  sleeper  saw  a  pale,  starry 
lace  looking  out  of  the  silvery  foam,  and  knew  that  it  was  my  lady, 
transformed  into  a  mermaid,  beckoning  his  uncle  to  destruction.  Be- 
yond that  rising  sea  great  masses  of  cloud,  blacker  than  the  blapkestink, 
more  dense  than  the  darkest  night,  lowered  upon  the  dreamer's  eye ; 
but  as  he  looked  at  the  dismal  horizon  the  storm  clouds  slowly  parted, 
and  from  a  narrow  rent  in  the  darkness  a  ray  of  light  streamed  out  upon 
the  hideous  waves,  which  slowly,  very  *lowly,  receded,  leaving  the  old 
mansion  safe  and  lirmly  rooted  on  the  shore. 

Robert  awoke  with  the  memory  of  this  dream  in  his  mind,  and  a  sen- 
sation of  physioal  relief,  as  if  some  heavy  weight  which  had  oppressed 
him  all  the  night,  had  been  lifted  from  his  breast. 

He  fell  asleep  again,  and  did  not  awake  until  the  broad  winter  sun- 
light  shone  upon  the  window-blind,  and  the  shrill  voice  of  the  chamber- 
maid at  his  door  announced  that  it  was  half-past  eight  o'clock.  At  a 
quarter  befere  ton  he  had  left  the  Victoria  Hotel,  and  was  making  his 
way  along  the  lonely  platform  in  front  of  a  row  of  shadowless  houses 
that  faced  the  sea. 

This  row  of  hard,  uncompromising,  square-built  habitations  stretched 
away  to  the  little  harbor,  in  which  two  or  three  merchant  vessels  and  a 
couple  of  colliers  wer»  anchored.     Beyond  the  harbor  there  loomed,, 


gray  and  cold  upon  the  -wintry  horizon,  n  dismal  barrack,  parted  from 
the  Wilderosea  houses  by  a  narrow  spanned  by  an  iron  draw- 

bridge.    The  scarlet  coat  of  the  sentinel  who  walked  backward  and  for- 
,   ward  between   two  cannons,  plated  at  remote  angles  before  the  barrack 
wall,  was  the  only  scrap  of  color  that  relieved  the  neutral-tinted  picture 
of  the  gray  stone  houses  and  the  leaden  sea. 

On  one.  side  of  the  harbor  a  long  stone  pier  stretched  out  far  away 
into  the  cruel  loneliness  of  the  sea,  as  if  built  for  the  especial  accommo- 
dation of  some  modern  Timon,  too  misanthropical  to  be  satisfied  even 
by  the  solitude'of  Wildcrnsea,  and  anxious  to  get  still  further  away  from 
his  fellow-creatures. 

It  was  on  that  pier  George  Talboys  had  first  met  bis  wife,  under  the 
blazing  glory  of  a  midsummer  sky,  and  to  the  music  of  a  braying  band. 
It  was  there  that  the  young  cornet  had  first  yielded  to  that  sweet  delusion, 
that  fatal  infatuation  which  had  exercised  so  dark  an  influence  upon  his 
after-life.  ' 

Robert  looked  savagely  at  the  solitary  watering-place — the  shabby 
seaport. 

"It  is  such  n  place  as  this,"  he. thought,  "that  works  a  strong  man's 
ruin.  He  comes  here,  heart  whole  and  happy,  with  no  better  experience 
of  woman  than  is  to  be  learned  at  a  flower-show  or  in  a  ball-room  ;  with 
no  more  familiar  knowledge  of.the  creature*  than  he  has  of  the  Far-away 
"satelitesof  the  remoter  planets;  with  a  vague  notion  that  she  is  a  whirling 
teetotum  in  pink  or  blue  gauze,  or  a  graceful  automaton  for  the  display 
I  of  milliners' manufacture.  He  comes  to  some  place  of  this  kind 
the  universe  is  suddenly  narrowed  into  about  half-a  dozen  acres ;  the 
mighty  scheme  of  creation  is  crushed  into  a  bandbox.  The  fur-away 
creatures  whom  he  had  seen  floating  about  him,  beautiful  and  indistinct, 
are  brought  under  his  very  nose ;  aud  before  he  has  time  to  recover  his 
bewilderment,  hey,  presto,  the  witchcraft  has  begun  ;  the  magic  circle  is 
drawn  around  him,  rhe  spells  are  at  work,  the  whole  formula  of  sorcery 
is  in  full  play,  and  the  victim  is  as  powerless  to  escape  as  the  marble- 
legged  prince  in  the  Eastern  story/' 

Ruminating  in  this  wise,  Robert  Audley  reached  the  house  to  which 
he  had  been  directed  as  the  residence  of  Mrs.  Barkamb.  lie  was  ad- 
mitted immediately  by  a  prim,  elderly  servant,  who  ushered  him  iino  a 
sitting-room  as  prim  and  elderly-looking- as  herself.  Mrs.  Barkamb,  a 
comfortable  matron  of  about  sis  .fajv.  wa  in  an  arm- 

chair before  a  bright  handful   of  fire  in  .  the  shining  grate.     An  eldcrU 
terrier,  whose  black-aud-tan  coat  was  thickly  sprinkled  with  gray,  »■ 
in  Mrs.  Barkarab's  lap.     Every  object  in  the  quiet  sitting-room  h 
elderly  aspect;  an  aspect  of  simple  comfort  and  precision,  which  i<  the 
•evidence  of  outward  repose. 

'•I  should  like,  to  live  here,"'  Robert. thought,  >;and  watch  the  gin 
•lowly  rolling  i  ray  sand  under  the  still  gray  sky.     I  should  like 

to  live  here  and  tell  the  beads  upon  my  rosary,  ana  repent  and  n 

He  seated,   himself  In   the  arm-chair  op]  kamb,  at  that 

lady's- invitation,  and  placed   his  hat  upon  the  ground.     The  elderly  ter- 


170  LADY   DUDLEY'S  SECRET. 

rier  d  '    mistress's  lap  to  bark  at  and  otherwise  take  ob- 

n  to  this  hat. 

"  You  were  v  suppose,  sir,  to  take  one — be  quiet,  Dash — one 

of  the  cott  ted  Mrs  Barkamb,  whose  mind  ran  in  one  narrow 

groove,  and  whose  life  daring  the  last  twenty  years  had  been  an  unvary- 
ound  of  hoi^e- 

RObert  Audley  explained  the  ;>urpose  of  his  visit. 

"  I  come  to  ask  one  simple  question,'1  he  said,  in  conclusion.    •"  I  wish 
to  discover  the  exact  date  of  Mrs.  Talboys'  departure  from  Wildernsea. 
The   proprietor  of  the  Victoria  .Hjotel   informed  me  that   you  were  the 
most  likely  person  to  afford  me  that  information." 
.  Barkamb  deliberated  for  some  moments. 

"lean  give  you  the  date  of  Captain  Maldon's  departure,''  she  said, 
"for  he  left  No.  17  considerably  in  my  debt,  and  I  have  the  whole  busi- 
ness in  black  and  white  ;    but  with  regard  to  Mrs.  Talboys " 

Mrs.  Barkamb  paused  for  a  few  moments  before  resuming. 

'•  You*  are  aware  that  Mrs.  Talboys  left  rather  abruptly  V  she  asked. 
'"  1  was  not  aware  of  that  fact." 

"Indeed  ?  Yes,  she  left  abruptly,  poor  little  woman!  She  tried  to  sup- 
port herself  after  her.  husband's  desertion  by  giving  music  lessons:  she 
was  a  very  brilliant  pianist,  and  succeeded  pretty  well.  1  believe,  but  1 
suppose  her  father  took  her  money  from  her,  and  spent  it  in  public 
houses.  However  that  might  be  they  had  a  very  serious  misunderstand- 
ing one  night;  and  the  next  morning  Mrs.  Talboys  left  Wildernsea, 
leaving  her  little  boy,  who  was  out  at  nurse  in  the  neighborhood." 

'•  But  you  cannot  tell  me  the  date  of  her  leaving  ?" 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  answered  Mrs.  Barkamb  ;  "and  yet.  stay.  Captain 
Maldon  wrote  to  me  upon  the  day  his  daughter  left.  He.was  in  verv 
great  distress,  poor  old  gentleman,  and  he  always  came  to  me  in  his 
troubles.  If  I  could  find  that  letter,  it  might  be  dated,  you  know — 
mightn't  it,  now?" 

Miy  Audley  said  it  was  only  probable  the  letter  was  dated. 

Mrs.  Barkamb  retired  to  a  table  in  the  window  on  which  stood  an  old- 
fashioned  mahogany  desk,  lined  with  green  baize,  and  suffering  from  a 
plethora  of  documents,  which  oozed  out  of  it  in  every  direction.  Let- 
ters* receipts,  bills,  inventories,  and  tax-papers  were  mingled  in  hopeless 
•  confusion  ;  and  among  these  Mrs.  Barkamb  set  to  work  to  search  for 
Captain  Maldon's  letter. 

Mr.  Audley  waited  very  patiently,  watching  the  gray  clouds  sailing 
•s  the  gray  sky,  the  gray  vessels  gliding  past  upon  the  -fray  sea. 

'After  about  ten  minutes'  search,  and  a  great  deal  of  rustling,  crackling, 
folding  and  .unfolding  of  the  papers,  Mrs.  Barkamb  uttered  an  exclama- 
tion of  triump 

"I've  got  tire  letter,"  she^said  ;  "and  there's  a  note  inside  it/rom  Mrs. 
Talboys/-  m  ' 

Robert  Audley's  pale  face  flushed  a  vivid  crimson  al  he  stretched. out 
his  hand  to  receive  the  papers. 

"The  persons   who  stole  Helen  Maldon's  love  letters  from  George's 


LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET.  \  7  1 

trunk  in  my  Chambers  might  have  spared  themselves  the  trouble, "'  ho 
thought. 

The  letter  from  the  old  lieutenant  was  not  long,  but  almost  every 
other  word  was  un< 

"M^  us  friend,"  the  writ     I         —  Mr.  MaWon  had  tried  the 

ity  pretty  severely  duriti  e  in  bet  house,  rarelv 

paying  his  rent   until   threatened    with   the    intruding   presence  of  the 

broker's  man — "  I  am  in  the  depths  ol  ;hter  has  I, 

You   may  imagine  my  feelings!     Wi  il  upon 

subject  of  .  itters,   whioh    - 

'able  one  between  us.  and  on  rising  this  morning  i  fotfi 
ail    The'enolosed  from  Helen  was  waitii  .  tablfti 

"  Yours  in  distraction  and  despair, 

'  "  Henuy 

"  No/th  Cottages,  August  yith,  1854." 

The  j  s  was  still  more  brief.     It  began"  abruptly 

thus : — 

"  I  am  weary  of  my  life  here,  and  wish,  if  I  can,  to  find  a  new  one.     I 
at  into  the  world,  dissevered  from  every  link  which  lands  me  to  the 
hateful  past   to   seek  another  home  and  another  fortune.  me  if 

I  have  been  fretful,  capricious,  changeable.     You  should   forgl 
you  know  why  I  have  I  Fou   know  the  secret  which  is  the  kcy 

to  my  life. 

"Helen  T^lboys." 

These  lines  were  v,  ;itten  in  a'  hand  that  Robert  Audiey  knew  only 
too  well. 

He  I  long  time  pondering  silently  over  the  li-tten  by 

Helen  Talboys. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  those  two  last  sentences — "You  should 
forgive  me,  for  you  knojv  why  1  1  ave  been  so.  You  know  the  secret 
which  is  I 

He  wearied  his  brain  hi  to  ■niiicaftou 

ofth*  sentences.     He  could   remember  notlnpg,  noj 

agine  anything  that  would  a  light  upon  theit  meaning.     The  dale 

of  Helen's  departure,  according  lo  Mr.  Maldon's  letter,  was  the  1 
.st,  1854.     Miss  Tonks  Luoy  Graham  em 

t  Villas  upon  the  17th  or  18th  of  August  in  the  same 
re  of  Helen   Tall  the  York 

ring-place  and  the  arrival  of  Lucy  Graham  at  the  Br< 
not  more  than  eight-and-forty  hours  ceuld  have 
very  small  link  in  Mfeichain  <  f  circumstantial  evidi  i  but  it 

s  a  link,  nevertheless,  and  it  fi 

"Did  Mr.  Maldon  hear  fie  [gl  Wildern- 

soa1?"  Robert 


172  LABI   DUDLEY'S  siiiCSSI. 

'/  Well,  T  believe  he  did  hear  from  her,"  Mrs.  Barkamb  answered  ;  , 
"  but  I  didn't  see  much  of  the  old  gentleman  after  that  August.  1  was 
obliged  to  sell  him  up  in  November,  poor  fellow,  for  he  owed  me  fifteen 
months'  rent;  and  it  was  only  by  selling  his  poor  little  bits  of  furniture 
that  I  could  get  him  out  of  my  place.  We  parted  very  .good  friends,  in 
spite  o£my  sending  in  the  brokers  ;  and  the  old  gentleman  went  to  Lon- 
don with  the  child,  who  was  scarcely  a  twelmonth  old." 

Mrs.  Barkamb  had  nothing  more  to  tell,  and  Robert  had  no  further 
questions  to  ask.  He  requested  permission,  to  retain  the  two  letters 
•written  by  the  lieutenant  and  his  daughter,  and  left  the  house  with  them 
in  his  pocket-book. 

He  walked  straight  back  to  the  hotel,  where  he  called  for  a  time-table* 
An  express  for  London  left  Wildernsea  at  a  quarter-past  one.  Robert 
sent  his  portmanteau  to  the  station,  paid  his  bill,  and  walked  up  and 
down  tthe  stone  terraoe  fronting  the  sea,  waiting  forlhe  starting  of  the 
train. 

'."I  have  traced  the  histories  of  Lucy  Graham  and  Helen  Talboys  to 
a  vanishing  point,"  he  thought;  "my  next  business  is  to  discover 'the 
history  of  fche  woman  who  lies  buried  in  Ventuor  churchyard." 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

HIDDEN  IN  THE  GRAVE. 

Upon  his  return  from  Wildernsea,  Robert  Audley  found  a  letter  from 
his  cousin,  Alicia,  awaiting  him  at  his  chambers. 

■'  Papa  is  much  better,"  the  young  lady  wrote,  "and  is  very  anxious 
to  have  you  at  the  Court.  For  some  inexplicable  reason,  my  step- 
mother has  taken  it  into  her  head  that  your  presence  is  extremely  desi- 
rable, and  worries  me  with  her  frivolous  questions  about  your  move- 
ments. So  pray  come  without  delay,  and  set  these  people  at-  rest. 
Your  affectionate  cousin,  A.  A." 

"So  my  lady  is  anxious  to  know  my  movements,"  thought  Robert, 
Audley,  as  he  sat  brooding  and  smoking  by  his  lonely  fireside.  "  She 
is  anxious;  and  she  questions  her  step-daughter  in  that  pretty,  childlike 
manner  which  has  such  a  bewitching  air  of  innocent  frivolity.  Poor  lit- 
tle creature  ;  poor  unhappy  little  golden-haired  sinner;  bhe  battle  be- 
tween us  seems  terribly  unfair.  -Why  doesn't  she  run. away  while  there 
is  still  time  1  I  have  given  her  fair  warning,  I  have  shown  her  my  cards, 
and  worked  openly  enough  in  this  business,  Heaven  knows.  Why 
doesn't  she  run  away  ?■'  • 

.  He  repeated  this  question  again  and  again  as  he  filled  and  emptied 


LAi>T   AU-DLET'S  WSCftfiT  173 

his  meerschaum,  surrounding  himself  with  the  blue  vapor  from  his  pipe 
until  he  looked  like  some  modern  magician  .seated  in  his  laborato^f.  ' 

"  Why  doesn't  she  run  away  ?  I  would  bring  no  needless  shame  up- 
on that  house,  of  all  other  houses  upon  this  vide  earth.  I  would  only 
do  my  duty  to  my  missing  friend,  and  to  that  brave  and  generous  man 
who  has  pledged  bis  faith  to  a  worthless  woman.  Heaven  knows  I  have 
no  wish  to  punish.  Heaven  knows  I  was  never  born  to  be  the  avei 
of  guilt  or  the  persecutor  of  the  guilty.  I  only  wish  to  do  my  duty.  I 
will  give  her  one  more  warning,  a  full  and  fair  one.  and  1  hen " 

His  thoughts  wandered  away  to  that  gloomy  prospect  in  which  he 
saw  no  gleam  of  brightness  to  relieve  the  dull,  black  obscurity  that  en- 
compassed the  future,  shutting  in  his  pathway  on  every  side,  and  spread- 
ing a  dense  ourtain  around  and  about  him,  which  Hope,  was  powerless 
to  penetrate.  He  was  forever  haunted  l>\  the  vision  of  his  uncle's  an- 
guish, forever  tortured  by  the  thought  of  that  ruin  and  desolation  which, 
being  brought  about  by  his  instrument;  y.  would  seem  in  a  manner 
his  handiwork.  But  amid  all,  and  thm  _,.)  ail,  Clara  Talboys,  with  an 
imperious  gesture,  beckoned  him  on  or  ard  to  her  brother's  unknown 
grave. 

••  Shall  I  go  down  to  Southampton."  he  thought,  "and  endeavor  to 
discover  the  history  of  the  woman  who  died  at  Ventnor?  Shall  I  work 
underground,  bribing  the  paltry  assistants  in  that  foul  conspiracy,  until 
1  find  my  way  to  the  thrice  guilty  principal?  No  !  not  till  I-have  tried 
other  means  of  discovering  the  truth.  Shall  I  go  to  that  miserable  old 
man,  and  charge  him  with  his  share  in  the  shameful  trick  which  I  believe 
to  have,  been  played  upon  my  poor  friend  1  No;  I  will  not  torture  that 
terror-stricken  w  retch  as  I  tortured  him  a  few  weeks  ago.  J  will  go 
straight  to  the  arch-conspirator,  and  will  tear  away  the  beautiful  veil 
under  which  she  hides  her  wickedness,  and  will  wring  from  her  the  se- 
cret of  my  friend's  fate,  and  banish  rW  forever  from  the  house 
presence  has  polluted." 

He  slatted  early  the  next  morning  for  Essex,  and  reached  Audley  be- 
fore "plcven  o'clock. 

Early  as  it  was,  my  lady  was  out,  She  had  driven  to  Chelmsford 
upon  a  shopping  expedition  with  her  step-daughter.  She  hail  several 
calls  to  make  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  town,  and  was  not  likely  tore- 
turn  until  dinner- time.  Sir  Michael's  health  was  very  much  improved, 
and  he  would  "come  down  stairs  in  the  afternoon.  Would  Mr.  An 
go  to  his  uncle's  room? 

No;  Robert  had  no  wish  to  meet  that  generous  kinsman.     What  could 
he  say  to  him?     How  could  he  smooth  the  way  to  the  trouble  that  was 
to  come? — how  soften  the  cruel  blow  of  the  great  g: -ief  that  was  pit 
ing  for  that  noble  and  trusting  heart? 

"If  I  <•<  mld'forgive  her  the  wrong  done  to  my  frien  thought, 

"  I  should  still  abhor  her  for  the  misery  her  guilt  must   bring   upon  the 
man  who  ha?  believed  in  her." 

He  told  his  uncle's  servant  that  he  would  stroll  into  the  village)  and 
return  before  dinner.     He  walked  slowly  away  from  the  Court,  wander- 


174  LADY   A.Ui>LEY'S  3ECI1ET. 

ing  across  the  meadows  between  his  uncle  s  house  and  the  village,  pur- 
poseless and  indifferent,  with  the  great  trouble  and  perplexity  of  bis  life 
ped  upon  bis  face  and  reflected  in  his  manner. 

'•  1  will  go  into  the  churchyard,"  he  thought,  "and  stare  at  the  tomb-  . 
stones.        here  is  nothing  I  can  do   that  will  make  me  more  gloomy 
than  I  am." 

He  was  in  those  very  meadows  through  which  he  had  hurried  from' 
Audley  Court  to  the  station  upon  the  September  day  in  .which  George 
.  Talboys  had  disappeared.  He  looked  at  the  pathway  by  which  he  had 
gone  upon  that  day,  and  remembered  his  unaccustomed  hurry,  and  the 
vague  feeling  of  terror  which  hag  taken  possession  of  him  immediately 
upon  losing  sight  of  his  friend. 

"  Why  did  that  unaccountable  tenor  seize  upon  me?"   he  thought. 
t;  "Why  was  it  that  1  saw  some  strange  mastery   in  my  friend's  disap- 
luce1?     Was  it  a  monition,  or  a  mom..  What  if  I  am  wrong 

after  all  1  What  if  this  chain  of  evidence  v,  i  ;  li  I  have  constructed  link 
by  link,  is  woven  out  of  my  own  folly1?.  What  if  this  edifice  of  horror 
and  suspicion  i#s  a,  mere  collection' of  crotchets — the  nervous  fancies  of  a 
hypochondriacal  bachelor?  Mr.  Harcourt  Talboys  sees  no  meaning  in 
the  events  out  of  which  I  have  made  myself  a  horrible  mystery.  I  lay 
the  separate  links  of  the  chain  before  him,  and  he  cannot  recognize  their 
fitness.     He  is  unable  to  put  them  together.     Oh,  my  God,  if  it  should  < 

be  in  myself  all  this  time  that  the  misery  lies  ;  if ■"  he  smiledbitt'er- 

.  ly,  and  shook  his  head.  "  L  have  the  handwriting  in  my  pocket-book 
which  is  the  evidence  of  the  conspiracy,"  he  thought.  "It  remains  for 
me  to  discover  the  darker  half  of  my  lady's  secret." 

He  avoided  the  village,  still  keeping  to  the  meadows.  The  church 
lay  a  little  way  back  from  the  straggling  High  Street,  and  a  rough  wood- 
en gate  opened  from  the  churchyard  into  a  broad  meadow,  that  was  bor- 
dered by  a  running  stream,  and  sloped  down  into  a  grassy  valley  dotted 
by  groups  of  cattle. 

Robert  slowly  ascended  the  narrow  hill-side  pathway  leading  up  to 
the  gate  in  the  churchyard.  The  quiet  dullness  of  the  lonely  landscape 
harmonized  with  his  own  gloom.  .  The  solitary  figure  of  an  old  man  hob- 
bling toward  a  stile  at  the  further  end  of  the  wide  meadow  was  the  only 
human  creature  visible  upon  the.  area  over  which  the  young  barrister 
looked. |  The  smoke  slowly  ascending  from  the  scattered  houses  in  the 
long  High  Street  was  the  only  evidence  of  human  life.  The  slow- pro- 
gress of  the  hands  of  the  old  clock  in  the  church  steeple  was  the  only 
token  by  which  a  traveller  could  perceive  that  the  sluggish 'course  of 
rustic  life  had  not  come  to  a  full  stop  in  the  village  of  Audley. 

Yes,  there  was  one  other  sign.  As  Robert  opened  the  gate  of  the 
churchyard,  and  strolled  listlessly  into  the  little  enclosure,  he  became 
aware  of  the  solemn  music  of  an  organ,  audible  through  atialf-open  wiu- 
dow  in  the  steeple. 

He  stopped  and  listened  to  the  slow  harmonies  of  a  dreamy  melody  * 
thjit  sounded  like  an  extempore  composition  of  an  accomplished  player. 

"  Who  would  have  believed  that  Audley  church  could  boast  such  an 


LAD1   AUDLEY'S  3J2CliET.  175 

organ1?"  thought  Robert.     "V  [  was  here,  th  :1  school- 

master usecL  to  accompany  h)9  children  by  a  primitu  •   perfori 
lords.     1  didn't  think  the  old  organ  had  such 

He  lingered  at  '!  :  to  break  the  lazy  spell  w 

!\bout  him  by  the  mi  melancholy  of  the 

SChe  tones  of  the  instrument,  now  sw< 
sinking  to  a  low,  whispering  - 
winter  atim 
him  In  his  I 

lie  i  rossed  the  lit;' 

the  do  flu's  door  had  been  left  ajar — by 

.  ah-i  wal  . 
porch,  from  which  a  ound  upward  to 

lbft  and  I  .     Mr.  A-u  ,  is  hat,  and  o]  i 

3oor  between  the  porch  and  tl  of  the  church. 

into  the  holy  edifice^  which  had  a  damp,  mo<  ill  upon  m 

He  walked  dawn  the  narrow  aisle  to  the  alt:  nd  from  that  point 

-ervation  took  a  survey  of  the  church.     The  little  gallery  w 
ly  opposite  to  him.  en  curtain  ie  organ  were 

closely  drawn,  and  he  couW  i  er. 

The  music  still  rolled  on.     The  organist,  had  wandered  into  a  me 
of  Mendel—  -train  whose   dreamy 

bert's  heart.     He  loitered  in  the  nooks  and 

ining  the  dilapidated  memorials  of  the   well-nigh   forgotten  dead,  and 
listening  to  this  music. 

"If  mv  pool  friend  George  Talboys.  had  died  in  my  arms,  and  I  had 
buried  him  in  this  quiet,  church,  in  one  of  the  vaults  over  Which  I  tread 
to-day,  how  much  anguish  of  mind,  vacillation,  and  torment  i  might  have 

lobert  Audley,  as  he  read  the  faded  insi 
tablets  lored  marble;  "  1  should  have,  known  his  fate — I  si,. 

have  known   his  fate!     Ah,  ho  w  much  a  in  that. 

It  is  this  miserable  uncertainty,  this  horrible  suspicion  which  ha 
ed  my  very  life."' 

He  looked  at  his  v, 

"  Half-past  one,'1  he    muttered.     "  I  shall   have   to   wait  four  or  I 
3 rear y  hours  before  my  lady  comes  home  from  her  mornirfg  calls, 
morning  calls — her   pretty   visits  of  ceremony  or   friend 
[leavens!  what  an  actn  roman  is.     \\ 

what  an  all-accotnpl 

ly  no  longer  under  my  u,  i.      1  have  djploma 

She    !.  d   to   accept  an  indirect 

plainly." 

The  music  of  I  f  the 

instrument. 

"  Til  have  a  look  at  this  n  ught,  "wh 

jury  his  talents  at  Audley,  and 
itipend   of 

to  descend  the  awkwai  In  the  \s 


176  I-^*    IWDUEY'3  MC&H 

trouble  of  his  mind,  and  with  the  prospect  of  getting  through  the  five 
hours  in  the  best  way_he  could,  Mr.  Audiey   was  glad  to  cultivate 
diversion  of  thought,   however  idle.     He   therefore  freely  indulged  his 
curiosity  about  the  new  organist. 

The  first  person  who  appeared  upon  the  steep  stone  steps  was  a  boy  in 
corduroy  trousers  and  a  dirk  linen  smockfrock,  who  shambled  down  the 
stairs  with  a  good  deal  of  unnecessary  clatter  of  his  hobnailed  shoes.and 
who  was  red  in  the  lace  from  the  exertion  of  blowing  the  bellows  of  the 
old  organ.  Close  behind  this  boy  came  a  young  lady,  very  plainly 
dressed  in  a  black  silk  gown  and  a  large  gray  shawl  who  started  and 
turned  pale  at  sight  of  Mr.  Audley. 

This  young  1  ad y/  was  Clara  Talboys. 

Of  all  people  in  the  world  she  was  the  last  whom  Robert  eith;- 
expected  or  wished  to  see.  .  She  had  told  him  that  she  was  going  to  pay 
a  visit  to  some  friends  who  lived  in  Essex;  but  the  county  is  a' wide 
one,  and  the  village  of  Audley  one  of  the  most  obscure  and  least  fre- 
quented spots  in  the  whole  of  its  extent.  That  the  sister  of  his  1  sot 
friend  should  be  here — here  where  she  could  watch  his  every  action,  and 
from  those  actions  deduce  the  secret  workings'of  his  mind,  tracing  his 
doubts  home  to  their  object — 7nade  a  complication  Of  his  difficulties  that 
he  could  never  have  anticipated.  It  brought  him  back  to  that  conscious- 
ness of  his  own  helplessness,  in  which  he  had  exclaimed — 

"A  hand  that  is  stronger  than  my  own  is  beckoning  me  onward  on 
the  dark  road  that  leads  to  my  lost  friend's  unknown  grave." 

Clara  Talboys  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"You  are  surprised  to  see' me  here,  Mr.  Audley,"  she  said. 

"Very  much  surprised." 

"  I  told  you  that  I  was  coming  to  Essex.  I  left  home  the  day  before 
yesterday'.  I  was  leaving  home  when  I'  received  your  telegraphic  mes- 
sage. The  friend  with  whom  I  am  staying  is  Mrs.  Martyn,  the  wife  of 
the  new  rector  of  Mount  Stanning.  1  came  down  this  morning  to  see 
the  village  and  church,  and  as  Mrs.  Martyn  had  to  pay  a  visit  to  the 
schools  with  the  curate  and  his  wife,  1  stopped  here  and  amused  myself 
by  trying  the  old  organ.  I  was  not  aware  till  I  came  here  that  there 
was  a  village  called  Audley.  The  place  takes  its  name  from  your  fam- 
ily, T  supposed"  * 

"I  believe  so,"  Robert  answered,  wondering  at  the  lady's  calmness, 
in  contradistinction  to  his  own  embarrassment.  "I  have  a  vague  rocol- 
lection  of  hearing  the  story  of  some  ancestor  who  was  called  Audley  of 
Audley  in  the  reign  of  Edwajd  the  Fourth.  The  tomb  inside  the  rails 
near  the  altar  belongs  to  one  of  the  knights  of  Audley,  but  I  have  never 
taken  the  trouble  to  remember'  his  achievements.  Are  you  going  to 
wait  here  for  your  friends,  Miss  Talboys  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  they  are  to  return  here  for  me  after  they  have  finished  their 
rounds." 

"  And  you  go  back  to  Mount  Stanning  with  them  this  afternoon  ?" 

"  Yes." 

Eobort  stood  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  looking  absently  out  at  the 


LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET.  177 

tombstones  and  the  low  wall  of  the  churchyard:     Clara Talboys  watched 

his  pale  face,  haggard  under  the  deepening  shadow  that  had  rested  upon 
it  so  long. 

'•You  have  been  ill  sine.1.  I  saw  you  last.  Mr.  Audley,"  she  sattf,  in  n 
low  had  the  same  melodious  sadness  as  the  notes  of  the  old 

organ  under  her  fou 

"No,  1  have  not  been  ill  ;  1  have  been  only  harrassed,  wearied  by  a 
hundred  dpubts  and  perplexities." 

He  was  thinking  as  he  spoke  to  her — "How  much  does  she  guess? 
how  much  'Iocs  she  suspect?1' 

lie  had  told  the  story  of  George's  disappearance  and  of  his  own  sus- 
:,  suppressing  only  the  names  of  those  concerned  in  the  mystery ; 
but  what  .if  this  girl  should  fathom  the  slender  disguise,  and  discover  for 
herself  that  which  lie  had  chosen  to  withhold. 

Her  grave  eyes  were  fixed  upon  his  face,  and  ho  knew  that  she  was 
trying  t<>  read  the  innermost  secrets  of  his  mind. 

"  What  am  I  in  her  hands  '."  lie  thought.  "  What  am  I  in  the  hands 
of  this  woman,  who  has  my  lost  friend's  face  and  the  manner  of  Pallas 
She  reads  my  pitiful,  vacillating  soul,  and  plucks  the  thoughts 
out  of  my  heart  with  the  magic  of  her  solemn  brown  eyes.  How  un- 
equal the  fight  must  be  between  us,'  and  how  can  I  ever  hope  to  conquer 
against  the  strength  of  her  beauty  and  her  wisdom  V 

Mr.  Audley  was  clearing  his  throat  preparatory  to  bidding  his  beau- 
tiful companion  good-morning,  and  making  his  escape  from  the  thraldom 
of  her  presence  into  the  lonely  meadow  outside  the.  churchyard,  when 
Clara  Talboys  arrested  him  by  speaking  upon  that  very  subject  which 
he  was  most  anxious  to  avoid. 

"  You  promised  to  write  to  me,  Mr.  Audley,"  she  said,  "if  you  made 
any  discovery  which  carried   you  nearer  to  the  mystery  of  my  brother's 
disappearance.     Vou  have  not  written  to  me,  and  I  imagine,  therefore, 
ai  have  discovered  nothing." 

Robert  Audley  was  silent  for  some  moments.  How  could  ho  answer 
this  direct  question  ? 

"Thechain  of  circumstantial  evidence -which  unites  the  mystery  of 
your  brother's  fate  with  tho  person  whom  I  suspect,"  he  said,  after  a 
pause,  "is  formed  of  very  slight  links.  I  think  that  I  have  added  an- 
other link  to  that  chain  since  I  saw  you  in  Dorsetshire." 

rd  you  refuse  to  tell  me  what  it  is  that  you  have  discovered  ?" 

':  <  >nly  until  I  have  discover/1'!  more." 

•  I  thought  from  your  message  that  you  were  going   to  Wildarn« 

'■  1  have  been  thei 

u  Indeed  !     It  was  there  that  you  made  some  discovery,  then  ?'' 

"  It  was,"  answer*  .1  Robert.     "Too  must   remember,  Miss  Tal! 
that  I  ground  upon  which   my  suspicions   res!  lentity  of 

two  individuals  who  bavefio  apparent  connection — the  identity  ofaper- 
son  who  i  1  with  one  who  is  living.     Th< 

ot  which  I  beli  en   the  *  i^tim   hing-s  upon 

this.     It'  i  ien   the  papers  recorded  her 


178    '  LADY   AUMJEY'S  9EG&&1. 

death — if  the  woman  who  lie*  buried  in  VentnOr  churchyard  was  indeed 
the  woman  whose  name  is  inscribed  on  the  headstone  of  the  grave — I 
have  no  case,  I  have  no  clue  to  the  mystery  of  your  brother's  fate.  I 
atu  about  to  put  this  to  the  test.  I  believe  that  1  am  now  in  a  position 
to  play  a  bold  game,  and  I  believe  that  I  shall  soon  arriv*  at  the 
truth."" 

He  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  and  with  a  solemn  emphasis  that  betrayed 
the  intensity  of  his  feeling.  Miss  Talboys  stretched  out  her  ungloved 
hand,  and  laid  it  in  his  own.  The  cold  touch  of  that  slender  hand  sent 
a  shivering  thrill  through  his  frame. 

"  You  will  not,  suffer  my  brother's  fate  to  remain  a  mystery,  Mr. 
Audlev,"  she  said,  quietly.  "  I  know  that  you  will  do  your  duty  to  your 
friend." 

The  rector's  wife  and  her  two  companions  entered  the  churchyard  as 
Clara  Talboys  said  this.  Robert  Audley  pressed  the  hand  that  rested 
in  his  own,  and  rais»d  it  to  his  lips. 

"I  am  a  lazy,  good-for-nothing  fellow,  Miss  Talboys,"  he  said  ;  "  but 
if  I  could  restore  your  brother  George  to  life  and  happiness,  I  should 
care  very  little  for  any  sacrifice  of  my  own  feeling.  I  fear  that  the  most 
I  can  do  is  to  fathom  the  secret  of  his  fate,  and  in  doing  that  I  must  sac- 
rifice those  who  are  dearer  to  me  than  myself." 

He  put  on  his  hat,  and  hurried  away  through  the  gateway  leading  into 
the  field  as  Mrs.  Martyn  came  up  to  the  porch. 

"  Who  Is  that  handsome  young  man  1  caught  tMe-d-ttle  with  you,  Clara1?" 
she  asked,  laughing. 

"  He  is*  a  Mr.  Audley,  a  friend  of  my  poor  brother's." 

"  Indeed  !     He  is  some  relation  of  Sir  Michael  Andley,  I  supoose?" 

"  Sir  Michael  Audley  !" 

"  Yes,  my  dear ;  the  most  important  personage  in  the  parish  of  *\ud- 
ley.  But  we'll  call  at  the  Court  in  a  day  or  two,  and  you  shall  see  the 
baronet  and  his  pretty  young  wife." 

"  His  young  wife  !"  repeated  Clara  Talboys,  looking  earnestly  at  her 
friend.     "  Has  Sir  Michael  Audley  lately  married  then  V 

'■Yes.  He  was  a  widower  for  sixteen  years,  and  married  a  penniless 
young  governess  about  a  year  and  a  half  ago.  The  story  is  quite  roman- 
tic, and  Lady  Audley  is  considered  the  belle  of  the  county.  But  come, 
my  dear  Clara,  the  pony  is  tired  of  waiting  for  us,  and  we've  a  long  drive, 
before  dinner." 

Clara  Talboys  took  her  seat  in  the  little  basket-carriage  which  was 
waiting  at  the  principal  gat©  of  the  churchyard,  in  the  care  of  the  boy 
who  had  blown  the  organ- bellows.  Mrs.  Martyn  shook  the  reins,  and 
the  sturdy  chestnut  oob  trotted  olfin  the  direction  of  Mount  Stanni rig. 

"  Will  you  tell  me   more  about  this  Lady  Audley,  Fanny  ?"  Miss 
Talboys  said,  after  a  long  pause.     "  I  want  to  know  all  about  her.    Have 
you  heard  her  maiden  name"?" 
"  Yes ;  she  was  a  Miss  Graham." 
"  And  she  is  very  pretty  ?" 

"  Yei„  very,  very  pretty.     Rather  a  ehilclish   beauty  t»©ngh,  with 


LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET.  179 

large  clear  blue  eye?,  and  pale  golden  ringlets,  that  fall  in  a  feathery 
shower  over  her  throat  and  shoulders." 

Clara  Talboys  was  silent.  She  did  not  ask  any  further  questions 
about  my  lady. 

She  was  thinking  of  a  passage  in  that  letter  which  George  had  written 
to  her  during  his  honeymoon — a  passage  In  which  he  said  : — "  My  child- 
ish little  wife  is  watching  me  as  1  write  this  Ah  !  how  I'wish  you  could 
see  her,  Clara  !  Her  eyes  are  As  blue  and  as  clear  as  the  skies  on  a 
blight  summer's  day,  and  her  hair  falls  about  her  face  like  the  pale  gol- 
,den  halo  you  see  round  the  head  of  a  Madonna  in  an  Italian  picture." 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

IS  THK  LIMK-WALX. 

Robert  Atjdlby  was  loitering  upon  the  broad  grass-plat  in   fror 
the  Court  as  the  carriage  containing  my  lady  and  Alicia  drove  under  trie 
archway,   and  dr6w  up  at  the  low  turret-door.  _  Mr.  Audley  presented 
himself  in  time  to  hand  the  ladies  out  of  the  vehicle. 

My  lady  looked  very  pretty  in  a  delicate  blue  bonnet  and  the  sables 
which  her  nephew  had  bought  for  her  at  St.  Petersburg.  She  seemed 
very  well  pleased  to  see  Robert,  .and  smiled  most  bewitchingly  as  she 
gave  him  her  exquisitely  gleved  little  hand. 

"So  you  have  come  back  to  us.  truant "?"  she  said,  laughing.  "And 
nrfw  that  you  have  returned,  we  shall  keep  you  prisoner.  We  won't  let 
him  run  away  again,  will  we.  Alii 

Miss  Audley  gave  her  head  a  scornful  toss  that  shook  the  heavy  curls 
under  her  cavalier  hat. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  movements  of  so  erratic  an  individual," 
she  said.  "Since  Robert  Audley  has  taken  it  into  his  head  td  conduct 
himself  like  some  ghost-haunted  hero  in  a  German  story,  I  have  given 
up  attempting  to  understand  him."' 

Mr.  Audley  looked  at  his  cousin  with  an  expression  of  serib-comic 
perplexity.  "She's  a  nice  girl,"  he  thought,  "but  she's  a  nuisance.  I 
don't  know  how  it  is,  but  she  seems  more  a  nuisance  than  she  used 
to  be." 

He  pulled  his  mustachios  reflectively  as  he  considered  thi ^question. 
His  mind  wandered  away  for  a  few  moments  from  the  great  trouble  of 
his  life  to  dwell  upon  this  minor  perplexity. 

"She's  a  dear  girl."  he  thoi  i  rous  hearted,  bouncing,  no- 
ble English  lassie,  and  yet "      lie  lost  himself  in  a  quagmire  of  doubt 

and  difficulty.     There  was  Home  hitch  in  his  mind   which  he   could  not 


180  LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET. 

understand;  some  change  in  himself,  beyond  the  change  male  in  him 
by  his  anxiety  about  George  Talboys,  "which  mystified  and  "bewildered 
him. 

"And  pray  where  havo  you  been  wandering  during  the  last  day  or 
two,  Mr.  Audley?"  asked  my  lady,  as  she  lingered  with  her  stop-daugh- 
ter upon  the  threshold  of  the  turret  door,  wailing  until  Robert  should  be 
pleased  to  stand  aside  and  allow  them  to  pass.  The  young  man  started 
as  she  asked  this  question  and  looked  up  at  her  suddenly.  Something 
ill  the  aspect  of  her  bright  young  beauty,  something  in  the  childish  in- 
nocence of  her  expression,  seemed  to  smite  him  to  the  heart,  and  his  fac^ 
grew  ghastly  pale  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"  I  have  been in  Yorkshire,"  he  said ;  "  at  the  little  watering-place 

where  my  poor  friend  George  Talboys  lived  at  the  time  of  his  marriage." 

The  white  Change  in  my  lady's  face  was  the  only  sign  of  her  having 
heard  these  words.  She  smiled,  a  faint,  sickly  smile,  and  tried  to  pass 
her  husband's  nephew. 

"  I  must  dress  for  dinner,"  she  said.  "  I  am  going  to  a  dinner-party, 
Mr.  Audley  :  please  let  me  go  in." 

"I  must  ask  you  to  spare  me  half  an  hour,  Lady  .Audley,"  Robert 
answered,  in  a  low  voice.     "  I  came  down  to  Essex  on  purpose  to  speak 
to  you." 
.  "What  about  V  asked  my  lady. 

'  She  had  recovered  herself  from  any  shock  which  she  might  have  sus- 
tained a  few  moments  before,  and  it  was  in  her  usual  manner  that  she 
asked  this  question.  Her  face  expressed  the  mingled  bewilderment  and 
curiosity  of  a  puzzled  child,  rather  than  the  serious  surprise  of  a  woman. 

"  What  can  you  want to  talk  to  me  about,  Mr.  Audley?"  she  re- 
peated. 

"1  will  tell  you  when  we  are  alone,"  Robert  said;,  glancing  at  his 
cousin,  who  stood  a  little  way  behind  my  lady,  watching  this  confiden- 
tial little  dialogue.  • 

"  He  is  in  love  with  my  step-mother's  wax-doll  beauty,"  thought  Ali- 
cia, "and  it  is  for  her  sake  he  has  become  such  a  disconsolate  object. 
He's  just  the  sort  of  person  to  fall  in  love  with  his  aunt." 

Miss  Audley  walked  away  to  the  grass-plat,  turning  her  back  upon 
Robert  and  my  lady. 

"  The  absurd  creature  turned  as  white  as  a  sheet  when  he  saw  her," 
she  thought.  "So  ho  can  be  in  love,  after  all.  That  slow  lump  of  tor- 
pidity he  calls  his  heart  can  beat,  1  suppose,  once  in  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury ;  but  it  seems  that  nothing  but  a  blue-eyed  wax-doll  can  set  it  go- 
ing. I  should  have  given  him  up  long  ago  if  I'd  known  that  his  ideal  of 
beauty  was  to  be  found  in  a  toy-shop." 

Poor  Alicia  crossed  the  grass-plat  and  disappeared  upon  the  opposite 
side  of  tHl  quadrangle,  where  there  was  a  Gothic-gate  that  communica- 
ted with  the  stables.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  Sir  Michael  Audley's 
daughter  went  to  seek  consolation  from  lier  dog  Caesar  and  her  chestnut 
mare  Atalanta.  whose  loose  box  the  young  lady  was  in  the  habit  of  vis- 
Hiflg  avery  day.  (      / 


l,AJ)V   fcUDLEfS  BteCRTT.  181 

"  Will  you  come  into  the.  lime-walk,  Lady  Audley  ?"  said  Robert;  m 
his  cousin  left  tin:  garden.  "I  wish  to  talk  t<>  you  without  fear  of  in- 
terruption or  observation,  I  think  we  could  choose  no  safer  place  than 
that.     Will  you  come  there  with  i 

"If you  J*.,  ase,"  answered  my  lady.     Mr.  Audley  could  see  that  she 
was  trembling,  and   that  she  glanced  from  side  to  side  as  if  loolcii 
te  outlet  by  which  she  might  im. 

'•Y<>u  are  shivering*   Lady  Audley,    he  said. 

"Yes,  i  am  very  cold,     i  would  rather  speak  to  you  some  other  day, 
>iow,  ir'  you  will.     1  have  to  dress  for  dii 
and  I  want  to  see  Sir  .Michael;  I  have   not  seen   him  since  te 
this  morning.     Please  led  it  bo  to-morrow." 

There   was  a  painful   piteousness   in  her  tone.     Heaven  knows 
painful  to  Robert's  h  r.rt.     Heaven   knows   what  horrible  images  arose 
in  his  mind  as  he  lookfid  down  at  that  fair  young  face  and  thought  of  the 
task  thai  lay  before  him. 

h  I  inust  Speak  to  j  Audley,"  hje  said.    "If  I  am  cruel,  it  is  you 

who  have  made   me   Cruel.      You  might  have  escaped  this  ordeal.     You 
might  have  av>  I  gave  you  fairwarning.     l»ut  you  have  chosen 

to  defy  me,  and   ft   i--  your  own  folly   which* is  to  blame  if  1, no  1< 
spare  you.     Come  with  me.     I  tell  you  agai  i  I  mu<t  spe  ik  to  you." 

There  was  a  cold  determination  in  his  tone  which  silenced  my  lady's 
objections.  She  followed  him  submissively  b>  the  little  iron  gate  which 
communicated  with  the  long  garden  behind  the  house — the  garden  in 
which  a  little  rustic  wooden  bridge  led  across  the  quiet  fish-pond  into  the 
lime-walk. 

The  early  winter  twilight  was  elosinc  in,  and  the  intricate  tracery  of 
the  leafless  branches  that  overarched  the  lonely  pathway  looked  black 
against  the  cold  gray  of  the  evening  sky.  The  lime-walk  seemed  like 
some  cloister  in  this  uncertain  licht. 

".Why  do  yon  bring  me  to  this  horrible  place  to  frighten  me  out  of 
my  poor  wits?''  cried  my  lady,  peevishly:  "You  ought  to  know  how 
nervous  I  am." 

"You  are  nervous,  my  lady?" 

"  Yes,  dreadfully  nervous.     I  am  worth  a   fortune  to  poor  Mr.  I 
son.     He  is  always  sending  me  camphor,  and  si!  volatile, and  red  laven- 

and  all  kinds  of  abominable  mixtures,  but  be  to  i'i  cure  me." 
•    "Do   yon    remember   what  Macbeth  tells  his  physician,  l 
asked  !y.     "Mr,  Dawson  may  be  very  much  m< 

than  the  Scottish  leech,  but  I  doubt  if  even  lie  can  minister  to  the  mind 
thai  d." 

'•  Who  said  that  my  mind  was  diseased  ?"  exclaimed  Lady  Audley. 

"I  say  so,  my  lady,"  answered  Robert.  "  You  ;''i!  me  that-  you  aro 
nervous,  and  that  all  the   m<  loiibe  an 

so  much  physic  that  might  as  well  be  thrown  to  --.     Let  me  be 

i  at 

•  I  wish  to  lie  merciful — ihaf  1  would  spare  ■ 
aa  it  is  to  my  power  to  spare  you  in  doing  justice  toothers — but  |i 


182  kAD?   DUDLEY'S  SECRET. 

must  be  done.     Shall  I  tell  you  why  you  are  nervous  in  this  house,  my 
lady  ?" 

"If  you  can,"  she  answered,  with  a  little  laugh.. 

"  Because  for  vou  this  house  is  haunted." 
'    "  Haunted  ?"  . 

"  Yes,  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  George  Talboys." 

Robert  Audley  heard  my  lady's  chickened  breathing,  he 'fancied  he 
could  almost  hear  the  loud  beating  of  her  heait  as  she  walked  by  his 
side,  shivering  now  and  then,  and  with  her  sable  cloak  wrapped  tightly 
round  her. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  cried  suddenly,  after  a  pause  of  some 
moments.  "  Why  do  you  torment  me  about  this  George  Talboys,  who 
happens  to  have  taken  it  into  his  head  to  keep  out  of  your  way  for  a  few 
months  1  Are  you  going  mad,  Mr.  Audley,  and  do  you  select  me  as 
the  victim  of  your  monomania'?  What  is  George  Talboys  to  me  that 
you  should  worry  me  about  him  ?" 

"He  was  a  stranger  to  you,  my  lady,  was  he  not?" 

"  Of  course  !"  answered  Lady  Audley.  "What  should  he  be  but  a 
stranger  ?" 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  the  story  of  my  friend's  disappearance  as  I  read  that 
story,  my  lady?"  asked  Robert. 

';  No,"  cried  Lady  Audley ;  "  I  wish  to  know  nothing  of  your  friend. 
If  he  is  dead,  I  am  sorry  for  \\\m.  If  he  lives,  I  have  no  wish  either  to 
see  him  or  to  hear  of  him.  Let  me  go  in  to  see  my  husband,  if  you 
please,  Mr.  Audley,  unless  you  wish  to  detain  me  in  this  gloomy  place 
until  I  catch  my  death  of  cold." 

"  I  wish  to  detain  you  until  you  have  heard  what  I  have  to  say,  Lady 
^    Audley,"  answered  Robert,  resolutely.     "  I  will  detain  you  no  longer 
than  is  necessary  ;  and  when  you  have  heard  me,  you.  shall  take  your 
•own  course  of  action/' 

"Very  Well,  then;  pray  lose  no  time  in  saying  what  you  have  to 
say,"  replied  my  lady,  carelessly.  "  I  promise  you  to  attend  very 
patiently." 

"  When  my  friend  George  Talboys  returned  to  England,"  Robert  be- 
gan, gravely,  "  the  thought  which  was  uppermost  in  his  mind  was  the 
thought  of  his  wife." 

"  Whom  he  had  deserted,"  said  my  lady,  quickly.  "At  least,"  she 
added,  more  deliberately,  "  I  remember  your  telling  us  something  to, 
that  effect  when  you  first  told  us  your  friend's  story." 

Robert  Audley  did  not  notice  this  observation. 

"  The  thought  that  was  uppermost  in  his  mind  was  the  thought  of  his 
wife,"  he  repeated.  "  His  fairest  hope  in  the  future  was  the  hope  of 
making  her  happy,  and  lavishing  upon  her  the  pittance  which  he  had  won 
by  the  force  of  his  own  strong  arm  in  the  gold-fields  of  Australia.  I  saw 
him  within  a  few  hours  of  his  reaching  England,  and  1  was  a  witness  of 
the  joyful  pride  with  which  he  looked  forward  to  his  reunion  with  his 
wife,  I  was  also  a  witness  of  the  blow  which  struck  him  to  the  very 
heart— which  changed  him  from  the  man  he  had  been,  to  a.  creature  aa 


%        LADY  •  AU  DLJJY -a  SKCfttf 

unlike  that  former  self  as  one  human  being  can  be  urrtike  another.     The 

blow  which  made  that  cruel  chance  was   the  announcement  of  his  wife's 
death  in  the  Times  newspaper,     I  now  believe  that  that  ann< 
was  a  black  and  bitter  lie." 

'■Indeed!*'  said  my  lady ;  "and    \\  hat   reason   could  any  one  have  for 
announcing  the  death  of  Mrs.  Talhoyej  if  Mrs.  Talboys  ha<  ive  '*' 

'•The  lad)  h  erself  might  have  had  a reason,"  Kobert  d,  quietly. 

"  What  reason  ?" 

"  How  if  she  had  taken  advantage  of  George's  absence  to  win  a  richer 
husband  ]     £iow  it  she  had  married  again,  and  wished  to  throw  my 
friend  off  the  scent  by  this  false  announcement?" 

Lady  Audley  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Your  suppositions  are  rather  ridiculous,  Mr.  Audley,"  she  said  ;   "it 
is  to  be  hoped  that  you  have  some  reasonable  grounds  for  them." 

"  1   have  examined   a  \file   of  each   of  the  newspapers   published  in 
Chelmsford  and  Colchester,"  continued  Kobert  without,  replying  to  my 
lady's  last  observation,  "  and  1  find  in  one  of  the  Colchester  paper-, 
.ted  July  the  2d,  1859,  a  brief  paragraph  among  numerous  miscellani 
.  /raps  of  information  copied  from  other  newspapers,  to  the  effeel   that  a 
Mr.  George  Talboys,  an  English  gentleman,  had  arrived  at  Sydney  from 
the  gold-fields,  carrying  with   him  nuggets  and  gold  dust  to  the  amount 
of  twenty  thousand  pounds,  and  that  he  had    realized    his   pro; 
sailed  for  Liverpool  in  the  fast  sailing   clipper  Argus.     This  is   a  very 
small  fact  of  course,  Lady  Audley,  but  it  is  enough    to   prove   that  any 
person  residing  in  Essex  in  the  duly  of  the  year  fifty-seven,  was  I 
to  become  aware   of  George  Talboys'  return  from  Australia.     Do  you 
follow  mef 

"  Not  very  clearly,"  said  my  lady.     "  What  have   the  Essex  papers 
to  do  with  the  death  of  Mrs.  Talboys?" 

••  Wi  will  come  to  that  by-and  by,  Lady  Audley.     1  say  that  I  be- 
lieve the  announcement  in  the  Times  to  have  been  a  false  I 
and  a  part  of  the  conspiracy   which  was  carried  out  by    lie1.,  u  Talboys 
and  Lieutenant  Maldon  against  my  poor  friend." 

"  K  conspiracy  !" 

'•  Yes,  a  conspiracy  concocted  by  an-artful  woman,  who  had 
ted  upon  the  chances  of  her  husband's  death,  and  had  secured  a 
position  at  the  risk  of  committing  a  crime ;  &   bold    woman,   my    lady, 
who  thought  to  play  her  comedy  out  to  the  end  without  fear  of  detec- 
tion ;  a  wicked  yorryin,  who  did  not  care  what  misery  •  he   might   inflict 
upon  the  honest  heart  of  the  man  she  betrayed  ;  but    a  man, 

who  looked  at  life  as  a  game  of  chance,  In   which  the   best  player 
likely,  to  hold  the  winning  cards,  forgetting  that  there  is  a   i' 
above  the  pitiful  speculators,  nn<l  Oiat  wicked  secret  .  r  permit- 

0  remain  long  hidden.      If  this  Woman    of  w] 
been  guilty  of  any   blacker  sin    than    the    publication    of  that 
nouncement  in  the  Times  newspaper,  I  should  still  hold  h< 
detestable  and  despicable  of  her  sei^-the  n 
of  human  creatures.     That  cruel  lie   was  a 


184  UA9?   A  l  DLJSY'd  SKCJiEX,  # 

the  dark  ;  it  was  the- treacherous  dagger-thrust  of  an  infamous  assassin." 

"  But  how  do  you  know  ihat  the  announcement  was  a  false  one?" 
asked  my  lady.  "  You.  jtold  us  that  yon  had  been  to  Ventnor  with  Mr. 
Talboys  to  see  his  Wire's  grave.  Who  was  it  who  died  at  Ventnor  if  it 
was  not  Mrs.  TaJboy,  - ." 

"Ah,  Lady  Audley,"  said  Robe)  >,  "that  is  a  question  which  only  two 
or  three  people  can  answer,  aud  one  or  other  or'  those  persons  shall  an- 
swer it  to  me  before  very  long.  1  tell  you,  my  lady,  that  I  am  deter- 
mined to  unravel  the  mystery  of  George  Talboys.'  death.  Do  you  think 
I  am  to  be  put  off  by  feminine  prevarication — by  womanly  trickery? 
No!  Link  by  link  I  have  put  together  the  chain  of  evidence,  which 
wants  but  a  link  here  and  there  to  be  complete  in  its  terrible  strength. 
•Do  you  think  I  will  suffer  myself  to  be  balii.d  I  Do  you  think  I  shall 
fail  to  discover  .those  missing  links'?  No,  Lady  Audley,  1  shall  not  fail, 
for  I  know  where  to  look  for  them!  There  is  a  fair  haired  woman  at 
Southampton — a  woman  cabled  Plowson,  who  has  some  share  in  the 
secrets  of  the  father  of  my  friend's  wife.  ■  I  have  an  idea  that  she  can 
help  me  to  discover  the  history  of  the  woman  who  lies  buried  in  Vent- 
nor churchyard,  and  I  will  spare  no  trouble  in  making  that  discovery  ; 
unless " 

"Unless  what1?"  asked  my  lady,  eagerly. 

■•  Unless  the  woman  I  wish  to  save  from  degradation  and  punishment, 
accepts  the  mercy  I  offer  .her,  and  takes-  warning  while  there  is  stili  time." 

My  lady  shrugged  her  graceful  shoulders,  and  flashed  bright  defiance 
out  of  her  blue  eyes. 

"  She  would  be  a  very  foolish  woman  if  she  suffered  herself  to  be  in- 
fluenced by  any  such  absurdity,"  she  said.-  "You  are  hypochondriacal, 
Mr.  Audley,  and  you  must  take  camphor,  or  red  lavender,  or  sal  volatile. 
What  can  be  more  ridiculous  than  this  idea  which-  you  have  taken  into 
your  head  1  You  lose  your  friend  George  Talboys  in  rather  a  mysterious 
manner — that  is  to  say,  that  gentleman  chooses  to  leave  England  with- 
out giving  you  due  notice:  What  of  that  %  Yon  confess  that  he  became 
an  altered  man  after  his  wife's  death.  He  grew  eccentric  and  misan- 
thropical;  he  affected  an  utter  indifference  as  to  what  became  of  him. 
What  more-likely  then,  that  he  grew  tired  of  the  monotony  of  civilized 
lire,  and  ran  away  to  those  savage  "jold-iields  to  find  a  distraction  for  his 
grief.  It  is  rather  a  romantic  stoiy .  but  by  no  means  an  uncommon  one. 
But  you  are  not  satisfied  with  this  simple  interpretation  of  your  friend's,, 
disappearance,  and  you  build  up  some  absurd  theory  of  a  conspiracy 
which  has  no  existence  except  in  your  own  overheated  brain.  Helen 
Talboys  is  dead.  The  Times  newspaper  declares  she  is  dead.  Her  own 
father  tells  you  that  she  is  dead.  The  headstone  of  the  grave  in  Vent- 
nor churchyard  bears  record  of  her  death.  By  what  right,"  cried  my 
lady,  her  voice  rising  to  that  shrill  and  piercing  tone  peculiar  to  her  when 
affected  by  any  intense  agitation — "by  what  right,  Mr.  Audley,  do  you 
come  to  me  and  torment  me  about  George  Talboys — by  what  right  do 
you  dare  .to  say  that  his  wife  is  still  alive1?" 

**  By  the  right  of  circumstantial  evidence,  Lady  Audley,"  answered 


LADY    AUDLEY'^  ilu )]  1^5 

Robert — "by  the  right  of  that,  circumstantial  evidence  wnich  will  a 

times  fix  the  guilt  of  a  man  s  murder  upon  that  person  \ 

hearing  of  the  ca  I  ost  unlikely  to  b<     u 

'•  What  circumstantial  evidence  I" 

'•The  evidence  of  time  and  place!  •  The  evidence  of  ha; 
When  Helen  Talboys  left  her  father'-  al  Wilder  left  a 

letter  behind  her — a  letter  in  which   sh  py  of 

her  old  life,  and  that  she  wished  to 
That  letter  is  in  iuv  possession." 

"  Indeed.'' 

"  Shall  1  tell  you  whose  handwriting  resembles  thai  of  I '  boys 

so  elosely,  that  the  most  dexterbna  expert  notion 

between  the  two?" 

"A  resemblance  between  the  handWriti  •  women  is  no  verv 

uncommon  circumstance   nov  earc1es»ly-.     ■•  I 

Could  show  you  the  caltgr-aphii    of  hall 
dents,  and  defy  you  to  discover  any  great  differences  in  them."  ' 

"But  what  itgjthe.  handwriting  is  a  very  uncommon  one,  presenting 
marked  jveularitics  by  which  it  may  be  rec< 

"  Why,  in  that  case  the  coincidence  is  rather  curious,*1  answered  my 
lady  ;  ';  but  it   is   nothing  more  than  a  coi 

the,  feet  of  Helen  Talboys'  death  on  the  ground  that  her  handwriting 
resembles  that,  of  some  surviving  person." 

"  But  if  a  series  of  such  coincidences  led  np  to  the  same,  p  )int,v 
Robert.     "  Helen  Talboys  left  her  father's  house,  according  to  thi 
laration  in  bet*  own  handwriting,  because  she  was  weary  of  her  old  lifo, 
and  wished  to  begin  a  new  one.     Do  you  know  what  I  infer  from  :;: 

My  lady  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"1  have  not  she  said  ;  '-and  as  you  have  detained 

in  this  gloomy  place  nearly  half-an-h.  .ur.  1  must  beg  that  yen  v,  ill  release 
me,  and  let  me  go  ami  dress  for  dinner." 

''No.  Lady  Audley,"an«Wi  it,  with  a  cold  sternness  that  was 

so  strange  to  him  as  to  transform    him   into  another  creature — 
embodiment  of  jus  retribution — "no.  ! 

Audley,"  he  repeated,  "  I  ii  that  womanij  will 

not  help  you;  1  tell  you  now  tie  will  nol 

dealt  fairly  with  you.  and  ha 
direct  notice  of  your  danger  two  months  -.<■ 

"  What  do  you  meai  .■  d  my  lad  uly. 

"  You  did  not  choose  to  take  iba  | 

Robert,  "and  the  til  le  I  In  which  I  musl 

you.  I  think  the  gifts  which  you  have  pie; 

beauty,  your  gi  ,  our 

horrible.     I  tell  j  ou  that  the 

ouyh  for  your  nni  1 

be  added;     lb  When 

.  she  went  awtt'  ible  sdioL 

' 


186  L^m'   AODLEY-S  lUEGRK| 

ter  with  the  declared  intention  of  washing  her  hands  or  that  old  life. 
What  dd  people  generally  do  when  they  wish  to  begin  a  new  existence 
— £o  start" for  a  second  time,  in  the  race  of  life,  free  from  the  encumbran- 
ces that  had  fettered  their  first  journey  '?  They  cliange  their  names,  Lady 
•  Audley.  Helen  Talboye  deserted  her  infant  son — she  went  away  from 
"Wilde'rnsea  with  the  predetermination  of  sinking  her  identity.  She  disH 
appeared  as  Helen  Tal boys  Upon  the  16th  of  August,  1854,  and  upo« 
the  17th  of  that  month  she  reappeared  as  Lucy  Graham,  the  friendless 
girl  who  undertook  a  profitless  duty  in  consideration  of  a  home  in  which 
she  was  asked  no  questions." 

"You  are  mad,  Mr.  Audley!"  cried  my  lady.  "You  are  mad,  and 
my  husband  shall  protect  me  from  your  insolence.  "What  if  this  Helen 
Tafbovs  ran  away  from  her  home  upon  one  day,  and  I  entered  my  em- 
ployer's house  upon  the  next,  what  does  that  prove']" 

"By  itself,  very  little,"  replied  Eobert  Audley;  "but  with  the  help 
of  other  evidence " 

"What  evidence?" 

"The  evidence  of  two  labels,  pasted  one  over  the  othjer,  upon  a  box 
left  by  you  in  the  possession  of  Mr>.  Vincent,  the  upper  label 'bearing 
the  name  of  Miss  Graham,  the  lowjgr  that  of  Mrs.  George  Talboys." 

My  lady  was  silent.  Robert  Audley  could  not  see  her  face  in  the 
dusk,  but  he  could  see  that  her  two  small  hands  were  clasped  convul- 
sively over  her  heart,  and  he  knew  that  the  shot  had  gone  home  to  its 
mark. 

"  God  help  her,  poor  wretched  creature,"  he  thought.  "  She  knows 
now  that  she  is  lost.  I  wonder  if  the  judges  of  the  land  feel  as  I  do  now 
when  they  put  on  the  black  cap  and  pass  sentence  of  death  upon  some 
poor,  shivering  wretch  who  has  never  done  them  any  wrong.  Do  they 
feel  a  heroic  fervor  of  virtuous  indignation,  or  do  they  suffer  this  dull 
anguish  which  gnaws  my  vitals  as  I  talk  to  this  helpless  woman  ?" 

He  walked  by  my  lady's  side,  silently,  for  some  minutes.  They  had 
been  pacing  up  and  down  the  dim  avenue,  and  they  were  now  drawing 
near  the  leafless  shrubbery  at  one  end  of  the  lime-walk — the  shrub-' 
berv  iti  which  the  ruined  well  sheltered  its  unheeded  decay  among  the 
tangled  masses  of  briery  underwood. 

A  winding  pathway,  neglected  and  half-chocked  with  weeds,  led  to- 
ward this  well..  Robert  left  the  lime-walk,  and  struck  into  this  path- 
way. There  was  more  light  in  the  shrubbery  than  in  the  avenue,  and 
Mr.  Audley  wished  to  see  my  lady's  face. 

He  did  not  speak  until  they  reached  the  patch  of  rank  grass  beside 
the  well.  The  massive  brickwork  had  fallen  away  here  and  there,  and 
loose  fragments  of  masonry  lay  buried  amidst  weeds  and  briers.  The 
heavy  posts  which  had  supported  the  wooden  roller  still  remained,  but 
the  iron  spindle  had  been  dragged  from  its  socket  and  lay  a  few  paces 
from  the  well,  rusty,  discolored,  and  forgotten. 

Robert  Audley  leaned  against  one  of  the  moss-grown  posts  and  looked 
down  at  my  lady's  feee,  very  pale  in  the  chill  winter  twilight.  The 
moon  had  newly  risen,  a  feebly  luminous  crescent  in  the  gray  heavens, 


LADY   AUiMLEY'S  SECRET  157 

and  a  faint,  ghostly  light  mingled  with  the  misty  shadows  of  the  declin- 
ing day.  My  lady's  lace  seemed  like  that  face  wl  ert  Audley 
had  seen  in  his  dreams  looking  out  of  the  white  loam  flakes  on  the  green 

.i  waves  and  luring  his  uncle  to  destruction.  4 

"Those  t\v<>  labels  are  in  my  possession,  Lady  Audley,1*  he  resin 
"I  took  them  from  the  box  left  by  you  at  '  I  took  them 

in  the  pre  Mrs.  Vincent  and  Miss,  Tonks.    -Have  you  any  proof 

to  o,fier  against  this  evidence  1     You  say  to  me,  '1  am  Lucy  Graham  and 
I  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  Helen  Talboys.'     fn  thai  1 
can  produce  witnesses  who  will  declare  your  antecedents.      Whetfc  had 
you  been  living  prior  to  your  appearance  at  Crescent  Villas  ?     You  must, 
have  friends,'  relations,  connections,  who  can  come  forward  to 
much  as  this  for  you.     If  you  were  the  most  desolate  creature  upon-thUj 
earth,  you  would  be  able  to   point  to  some  one  who  could  identii 
with  the  past." 

"Yes,"'  cried  my  lady,  "if  I  were  placed  in  a  criminal  dock,  1  could, 
no  doubt,  bring  lorward  witnesses  to  refute  your  absurd  accusation. 
But  1  am  not  in  a  criminal  dock,  Mr.  Audley,  and  1  de  not  choose  to  do 
anything  but  laugh  at  your  ridiculous  folly.  1  tell  you  that  you  are 
mad  !  If  you  pleas  1  to  say  that  Helen  Talboys  is  not  dead  and  that  1 
am   Helen   Talboys,  you  may   do   sd.     If  you  choo  wandering 

about  to  the  places  in  which  I'have  lived,  and  to  the  places  in  which  this 
Mrs.  Talboys   has  lived,  you  must  follow  the  bent  of  your  own  inclina- 
tion, but  I  would  warn  you  that  such  fancies  have  sometimes  cond 
people,  as  apparently  sane  as  yourself,  to  the  life-long  imprisonim 
a  private  lunatic  asylum." 

Robert  Audley  started  and  recoiled  a  few  paces  among  the  weeds  and 
brushwood  as  my  lady  said 

"She   would  be  capable  of  any  new  crime  to  shield  her  from  the  con- 
sequences of  the  old  one,"  he  thought.     "She  would 
her  influence  with  my  uncle  to  place  me  in  a  m 

I  do  \udley  was  a  coward,  but  I  will  admit  that 

a  shiver  of  horror,  something  akin  .  'hilled  him  to  the .heart  as  he 

remembered  the  horrible  things  th  it   have  been  done  by  women 
that   day    upon    whi  panion  and 

helpmeet  in  the  garden  of  £d<  11.  What  it'  this  woman's  hellish  power 
of  dissimulation  should  h  r  than  the  truth,  a 

had   not  when    h  >od  in  her  way   and 

menaced  her  with  a  }  would  1  lim  who  1 

her  with  a  far  greater  ds  omen  merciful,  or  loving,  or  kind 

in  proportion  to  thei  1  beautj  and  their  graci 

tude,  who  had  ie  all- 

I  . 

life-long   in.pi  is  i  from  p 

tobetwici  ;  who  trusting  in  the  tai 

of  his  beautiful   I  •  belt 

■ 
fair  and  beautiful  free,  iDUmined  by  starry  blue  .t  Lad  as:.. 


188  JADY  AUDLKY'S  SEOftKT 

and   Surely   a  i  light  in   (horn  ;  and  remembering  a  hundred 

s  of  womanly   perfidy,  shin  he  thought  how  unequal  the  , 

ie  might  be  between  himSeffand  his  uncle's  wife. 

'"'i  have  shown    her  my  cards,"  he  thought,  "  but  she  has  kept- hero 
n  from  me.     The  mask  that  she  wears  is  not  bo.  be  |  i  ..ay. 

My  uncle  would  rather  think  me  mad  than  believe  her  guilty. v 

of  Clara  Talboy* —  that  grave  and  earnest  face,  so  di1 
!  its  character  to  my  ksdyV fragile  ■■•■  auty-^-arose  before  him. 

<:  V.  iward  I  am  to  think  of  myself  or  my  own  dSng'er,"  he 

i  more  I  see   of "thi  the    more  reason  J  have  to 

her  influence  upon  others;  the  more  reason  to  wish  her  Jar  away 
e." 

He  looked  about  him  in  the  dusky  obscurity.  The  lonely  gardei  was 
as  quiet  as  some  solitary  graveyard,  walled  in  and  hidden  away  from 
the  world  of  the  living. 

somewhere  in  this  garden  that  she  met  George  Talboys  uponA 
the  day  of  his  disappearance,"  he  thought.     "J  wonder  where  it  was  they 
met  ;   i  wonder  where  it  was  that  he  looked  into  her  cruel  face  and  taxed 
her  with  her  falsehood." 

My  lady,  with  her  little  hand  resting  lightly  npon   the   opposite  post 
to  that  against  which  Robert,  leaned,  toyed  with  her  pretty   foot  among  ' 
the  long  weeds,  but  kept  a  furtive  watch  upon  her  enemy's  face. 

•'Jt  is  to  be  a  duel  to  the  death,  then,  my 'lady,"  said  Robert  Audley, 
solemnly.  "You  refuse  to  accept  my  warning.  You  refuse  to  run 
away  and  repent  of  your  wickedness  in  some  foreign  place,  far  from  the 
generous  gentleman  you  have  deceived  and  fooled  by  your  false  witche- 
ries.    You  choose  to  remain  here  and  defy  me." 

'•  I  do,"  answered  Lady  Audley,  lifting  her  head  and  looking  full  at 
the  young  barrister.  '  "  It  is  no  fault  of  mine  'if  my  husband's  nephew 
goes  mad  and  chooses  me'  for  the  victim  of  his  monomania." 

"  So  be  it,  then,  my  lady,"  answered  Robert.  "My  friend  George 
Talboys  was  last  seen  entering  these  gardens  by  the  little  iron'  gate  at 
which  we  came  in  to-night.  Tie  was  last  heard  inquiring  for  you.  He 
was  seen  to  enter  these  gardens,  but  he  was  never  seen  to  leave  them. 
!  do  not  believe  that  he  ever  did  leave  them.  I  believe  that  he  met 
with  his  death  within  the  boundary  of  these  grounds;  and  that  his  body 
lies  hidden  below  some  quiet  water,  or  in  some  forgotten  comer  of  this 
place.  I  will  have  such  a  search  made  as  shall  level  that  house  to  the 
earth  and  root  up  every  tree  in  these  gardens,  rather  than  I  will  fail  in 
finding  the  grave  of  my  murdered  friend." 

Luey  Audley  uttered  a  long,  low,  wading  cry,  and  threw  up  her  arms 
above  her  head  with  a  wild  gesture  of  despair,  but  she  made  no  answer 
to  the  ghastly  charge  of  her  accuser.  Her  arms  slowly  dropped,  and 
she  stood  staring  at  Robert  Audiey,  her  white  face  gleaming-  through 
the  dusk,  her  blue  eyes  glittering  and  dilated. 

"YdU  shad  never  live  to  do  thfe,"  she  said.  •  "  7  will  kill  you  first. 
Why  have  you  tormented  me  so"?  Why  could  you  not  let  me  alone  1 
What  harm  had  I  ever  done  you  that  you  should  make  yourself  my  per- 


LADY   AUDLET3  SECRtiT  Ig*) 

/ 
ad  dog  r  '  d  watch  my  ;  upon 

mel     Do  you  want  to  drive  m©  mad?     Do  you   know   what  it 
wrestle  with  a  mad  woman  1     Not,"  cried  my  lady,  with  a  l'u. 

do  not,  or  you  would  never " 

■  stopped  abruptly  and  drew  hers 
It  waa-ihe  sam  which  Rol  een   in   the  -Id  hail-drunken 

lieutenant;  and  it  had    that  earn*  — ihe   sub 

miser. . 

"Go  away,  Mr,  At  aid.     '-You  are  ma 

arc  mad." 

lfc  I  an>  going,  ray  lady,"  answered  Robert,  quietly.     '■  1  would  havq 
oned  yoifr  crimes  out  of.pity  to  your  wreti 

Bcept  m\  ity   upeo   the   li\  in> 

i  henceforth  oi  to  the  da 

He  walked  away  from  iy  well  undet  the  si 

My   lady  followed   him  slowly.*down   thai  gloomy  av< 

across   the  rustic  bridge   to   the   iron  gate.     As  he  passed  through  V>e 
gate,  Alicia  came  oul  of  a  little  half-glass  door  thai  openei 
led  breakfast-room  at  one, angle  of  the  house,  an  j  . 
up, >u  the  threshold  of  the  gateway. 

"I  have  been  looking  for  you  everywhere,  Robert),  she  said.     "  P 
has  come  down  to  the  library,  and  will  be  glad  to  see  you." 

The  young  man  started  at  the.  sound,  of  his  cousin's 
"Good  h  bethought,   '-can  these  two  women  be   of  the  - 

clay?  Cui  (his  frank,  generous-hearted  girl,  who  cannot  conceal  any 
impulse  of  her  innocent  nature,  be  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood  as  that 
wretched  creature  whose  sh    low  falls  upon  the  path  beside  n 

He  looked  from  his  00  us  In  to  Lady  Audley,  v  near  the  | 

way,  waiting  for  him  to  ide  and  let  him. 

u  !  don't  know  what  has  come  to  your  cousi;  .  rrly  dear    Ali 
my  lady.     "  TTe  is  so  absent-minded  and  eccentric,   ft*  to   be  quiti 
yond  my  comprehension.'' 

"Indeed,"  exclaimed  Miss  Audley  ;  "and  yet  I  should  from 

the  length  of  your  te  that  you  had  made  sop  to   under- 

stand him." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Robert,  quietly,  "my  lady  and  I  unden  and  eai  h 
er  very  well  ;  but  as  owing  late  I  will  wish  you  go  '_r.  la- 

dies.    I  shall  Bleep  to-night  at  Mount  Stanning,  as  I  i 
to  attend  to  up  there,  ami  I  will  come  down  and  see  my  uncle  to-moi  r 

"What,  Robert,"  cried  Alicia,  "you  surely  w  away  without, 

seeing  papa  .'"' 

"  Yee.  my  dear,"  answered  the  young  man.      "I  am  B  little,  d 
by  some  disagreeable  business  in  which  I  am  very  much  a  .  and 

did  rather  nol  see  my  i  A       >■.   I   will 

to  morrow." 
II  ■  lis  cousin's  hat  to   Lad 

-  the  black  shadows  of  the  archv  out  into  the  quiet 

avenue  K>vond  >he  Court. 


190  LADY  AUDLETS  SECRET.    . 

My  lady  and  Alicia  stood  watching  him  until  he  was  out  of  sight. 

"  What  in  goodness'  name  is  the  matter  with  my  cousin  Robert?"  ex- 
claimed Miss  Audley,  impatiently,  as  the  barrister  disappeared.  "  What 
does  he  mean  by  these  absurd  goings-on  ?  Some  disagreeable  business 
that  disturbs  him,  indeed!  1  suppose  the  unhappy  creature  has  had  a 
brief  forced  upon  him  by  some  evil-starred  attorney,  and  is  sinking  into 
a  state  of  imbecility  from  a  dim  consciousness  of  his  own  incompe- 
tence." 

"  Have"  you  ever  studied  your  cousin's  character,  Alicia?"  asked  my 
ladv,  very  seriously,  after  a  pause. 

"  Studied  his  character !  No,  Lady  Audley.  Why  should  I  study 
his  character  ?"  said  Alicia.  "  There  is  very  little  study  required  to  con- 
vince anybody  that  he  is  a  lazy,  selfish  Sybarite,  who  cares  for  nothing 
in  the  world  except  his  own  ease  and  comfort." 

"  But  have  you  never  thought  him  eccentric?" 

"  Eccentric  !"  repeated  Alicia,  pursing  up  her  red  lips  and  shrugging 
her  shoulders.  "  Well,  yes — I  belie-  e  that  is  the  excuse  generally  made 
for  such  people.     I  suppose  Bob  is  eect   trie." 

"  I  have  never  heard  you  speak  of  hu-  father  and  mother,"  said  ray 
lady,  thoughtfully.     "  Do  you  remember  rhem  ?" 

:"  I  never  saw  his"mother.  She  was  a  Miss  Dalrymple,  a  very  dash- 
ing girl,  who  ran  away  with  my  uncle,  and  lost  a  very  handsome  fortune 
in  consequence.     She  died  at  Nice  when  poor  Bob  was  five  years  old." 

"'Did  you  ever  hear  anything  particular  about  her?" 

•  "  How  do  you  mean,  'particular'?"  asked  Alicia. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  that  she  was  eccentric — what  people  call  '  odd  '?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Alicia,  laughing.  ''  My  aunt  was  a  very  reasonable 
woman,  I  believe,  though  she  did  marry  for  love.  But  you  must  re- 
member that  she  died  before  I  was  born,  and  I  have  not,  therefore,  felt 
very  much  curiosity  about  heV." 

'•  But  you  recollect  your  uncle,  I  suppose?" 

"My  uncle  Robert?"  said  Alicia.  "Oh,  yes,  I  remember  him  very 
well  indeed." 

"  Was  he  eccentric — I  mean  to  say,  peculiar  in  nis  habits,  like  your 
cousin?" 

"  Yes,  I  believe  Robert  inherits  all  his  absurdities  from  his  father. 
My  uncle  expressed  the  same  indifference  for  his  fellow-creatures  as  my 
cousin,  but  as  he  was  a  good  husband,  an  affectionate  father,  and  a  kind 
master,  nobody  ever  challenged  his  opinions." 

"  Hut  he  ivas  eccentric?" 

"  Yes;  I  suppose  he  was  generally  thought  a  little  eccentric." 

"  Ah,"  said  my  lady,  gravely,  "I  thought  as  much.  Do  you  know, 
Alicia,  that  madness  is  more  often  transmitted  from  father  to  son  than 
from  father  to  daughter,  and  from  mother  to  daughter  than  from  mother 
to  son?  Your  cousin  Robert  Audley  is  a  very  handsome  young  man, 
and  I  believe  a  very  good-hearted  young  man,  but  he  must  be  watched, 
Alicia,  for  he  is  madV 

" Mad T' cried  Miss  Audley,  indignantly;  "you  are  dreaming^  my 


LADT  A ITDLEYS  SECRET.  191 

lady,  or— or — you  are  trying  to  frighten  me,"  added  the  young  lady, 
with  considerable  alarm. 

■•  I  only  wish  to  put  you  on  your  guard,  Alicia,*'  answered  my  ladv. 
"Mr.  Audley  may  be  as  you  say,  merely  eccentric  ;  but  he  1ms  talked 
to  me  this  evening  in  ;i  manner  that  has  filled  me  with  absolute  terror, 
and  1  believe  that  he  is  going  mad.  1  shall  speak  very  seriously  to  Sir 
Michael  this  very  night." 

"Speak  to  papa,"'  exclaimed  Alicia;  "you  surely  won't  distress  papa 
by  suggesting  such  a  possibility  !"       — 

"1  shall  only  put  him  On  his  guard,  my  dear  Alicia." 

"But  he'll  never  believe  you,"  said  Miss  Audley ;  "he  will  laugh  at 
such  an  idea." 

"  No,  Alicia ;  he  will  believe  anything"  that  1  tell  him,"  answered  my 
lady,  with  a  quiet  smile. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

PREPARING  THE  GROUND. 

Lady  Audley  went  from  the  garden  to  the  library,  a  pleasant,  oak- 
panelled,  homely  apart  men  1  in  which  Sir  Michael  liked  to  sit  reading  or 
writing,  or  arranging  the  business  of  his  estate  with  his  steward,  a  stal- 
wart countryman,  half  agriculturist,  half  lawyer,  who  rented  a  small  farm 
a  few  miles  from  the  Court. 

The  baronet  was  seated  in  a  capacious  easy-chair  near  the  hearth. 
The  bright  blaze  of  the  fire  rose  and  fell,  flashing  now  upon  the  polished 
carvings  of  the  black-oak  bookcase,  now  upon  the  gold  and  scarlet  bind-  < 
toga  of  tho  books;  sometimes  glimmering  upon  the  Athenian  helmet  of 
a  marble  Pallas,  sometimes  lighting  up  the  forehead  of  Sir  Robert 
Peel. 

The  lamp  upon  the  reading-table  had  not  yet  been  lighted,  and  Sir 
Michael  sat  in  the  firelight  waiting  for  the  coming  of  his  ytfui  g  wife.' 

It  is  impossible  for  me    ever  to  tell  the  purity  of  hi  is  love — 

it  is  impossible  to  describe  that,  affection  which  was  as  tender  as  the  love 
of  a  young  mother  for  her  first-born,  as  brave  and  chivalrous  as  the  h 
passion  of  a  Bayard  for  his  liege,  mistress. 

The  door  opened  \vhile  he  was  thinking  of  this  f;>ndly-lovcd  wife,  and 
looking  up.  the  lian.net   saw   the  slender  form  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"  Why,  my  darling !"  he  exclaimed,  as  my  lady  closed  the  door  be- 
hind her,  and  came  toward  his  chair,  "  I  have  been  thinking  of  you,  and 
waiting  for  you  for  an  hour.  Where  have  you  been,  and  what  have 
you  been  doing?** 


192  LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET. 

lady,  standing  m  the  shadow  rather  than  in  the  light,  paused  a 
few  .  plying  to  this  question. 

'•  1  have  been  to  Chelmsford,"  she  said,  "shopping;  and " 

She  hesitated — twisting  her  bonnet  strings  in  her  thin  white  fingers 
with  an  air  of  pretty  embarrassment. 

'•And  what,  my  d  ear  V'  asked  the  baronet — "what  have  you  been 
doin"-  since  you  came  from  Chelmsford  '?  I  heard  a  carriage  .stop  at  the 
door  an  hour  ago.     It  was  yours,  was  it  not?" 

"  Yes,  1  came  home  an  hour  ago,"  answered  my  lady,  with  the  same 
air  of  embarrassment.  '       '  ■ 

'•And  what  have  you  been  doing  since  you  came  home?" 

Sir   Michael  Audley  asked   this  question  witlva  slightly  reproachful 

accent,      His  young  wife's  presence  made   the   sunshine  of  his  life ;  and 

h  he  could  not  bear  to  chain  her  to  his  side,  it  grieved  him  to  think 

that  she  could  willingly  remain  unnecessarily  absent  from  hi  no,  frittering 

away  her  time  in  some  childish  talk  or  frivolous  occupation. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  since  you  came  home,  in  y.  dear?"  he  re- 
peated.    "  What  has  kept  you  so  long  away  from  me?" 

'•I  have  been — talking — to — Mr.  Robert  Audley."' 

She  still'twisted  her  bonnet  string  round  and  round  her  fingers.  She 
still  spoke  with  the  same  air  of  embarrassment. 

"  Robert  I"  exclaimed  the  baronet,  "is  Robert  here?" 

"  He  was  here  a  little  while  ago." 

"And  >s  here  still  I  suppose  ?" 

"  No,  he  has  gone  away." 

"  Gone  away  T'  cried  Sir  Michael.  "  What  do  you  mean  my  darling?" 
•"  I  mean  that  your  nephew  came  to  the  Court  this  afternoon.  Alicia 
and  I  found  him  idling  about  the  gardens.  He  stayed  here  till  about  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  ago  talking  to  me,  and  then  he  hurried  off  without  a 
word  of  explanation  ;  except,  indeed,  some  ridiculous  excuse  about 
business  at  Mount  Stanuing." 

.  "  Business  at  Mount  Standing  !•  Why,  what  business  can  he  possibly 
have  in  that  out-of-the-way  place?  He  has  gone  to  sleep  at  Mount 
Stanuing,  then,  I' suppose?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  think  he  said  something  to  that  effect." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  exclaimed  the  baronet,  "I  think  that  boy  is  half  • 
mad." 

My  lady's"  face  was  so  much  in  shadow,  that  Sir  Michael  Audley  was 
unaware  of  the  bright  change  that  came  over  its  sickly  pallor  as  he  made 
this  very  commonplace  observation.  A  triumphant  smile  illuminated 
Lucy  Audley's  countenance,  a  smile  that  plainly  said,  "  It  is  cdming — 
it  is  comimi ;  I  can  twist  him  which  way  I  like.  I  can  put  black  before 
him,  and  if  1  say  it  is  white,  he  will  believe  me."  * 

But  Sir  Michael  Audley  in  declaring  that  his  nephew's  wits  were  dis- 
ordered,  merely   uttered    that  commonplace   ejaculation  which  is  well 
known  to.  have  very  little  meaning.     The  baronet  had,  it  is  true,  no  very 
.  great  estimate  of  Robert's  faculty  for  the  business  of  this  every-day  Kfe. 
He  was  in  the  habit  of  looking  upon  his 'nephew  as  a  good-natured 


v  LADY  AUDIJ:Y'is  SECHET.  193 

nonentity — a  man  whose  heart  had  been  amply  stocked  by  liberal  na- 
ture with  all  the  best  things  the  generous  goddess  had  to  bestow,  but 
whose  brain  had  been  somewhat  overlooked  in  the  distribution  of  intel- 
lectual gifts.  Sir  Michael  Audley  made  that  mistake  which  is  very 
commonly  made  by  easy-going,  well-to-do-observers,  who  have  no  occa- 
sion to  look  below  the  surface.  lie  mistook  laziness  for  incapacity. 
He  thought  because  his  nephew  was  idle,  he  must  necessarily  be  stupid. 
He  concluded  that  if  Robert  did  not  distinguish  himself,  it  was  because 
he  could  not. 

Ho  forgot  the  mute  inglorious  Miltons,  v  ho  die  voiceless  and  inarticu- 
late for  want  of  that  dogged  perseverance,  that  blind  courage,  which  the 
poet  must  possess  before  he  can  iind  a  publisher;  he  forgot  the  Crom- 
wells,  who  see  tha  noble  vessel  of  the  state  floundering  upon  a  sea  of 
confusion,  and  going  down  in  a  tempest  of  noisy  bewilderment,  and  who 
yet  are  powerless  to  get  at  the  helm  ;  forbidden  even  to  send  out  a  life- 
boat to  trm  sinking  ship.  Surely  it  is  a  mistake  to  judge  of  what  a  man 
can  do  by  thai  which  he  has  done. 

The  worlds  Valhalla  is  a  close  borough,  and  perhaps  the  greatest 
men  ma j'  be  those  who  perish  silently  far  away  from  the  sacred  pfetal. 
Perhaps  the  purest  arid  brightest  spirits  are  those  who  shrink  from  the 
turmoil  of  the  race-course — the  tumult  and  confusion  of  the  struggle. 
The  game  of  life  is  something  like  the  game  of  ecarlc,  and  it  may  be  that 
the  best  cards  arc  sometimes  left  in  the  pack. 

My  lady  threw  off  her  bonnet,  and  seated  herself  upon  a  velvet-covered 
footstool  at  Sir  Michael's  feet.  There  was  nothing  studied  or  affected 
in  this  girlish  action.  It  was  so  natural  to  Lucy  Audley  to  be  childish, 
that  no  one  would  have  wished  t6  see  her  Otherw^e.  It  would  have 
seemed  as  foolish  to  expect  dignified  reserve  or  womanly  gravity  from 
this  amber-haired  siren,  as  to  wish  for  rich  basses  amid  the.  clear  treble 
of  a  skylark's  song. 

She  sat  with  her  pale  face  turned  away  from  the  firelight,  and  with 
her  hands  locked  together  upon  the  arm  of  her  husband's  easy-chair. 
They  were  very  restless,  these  slender  white  hands.  My  lady  twisted 
the  jewelled  fingers  in  and  out  of  each  other  as  she  talked  to  her  husband. 

"I  wanted  to  come  to  you,  you  know,  dear,"  she  said — "I  wanted  to 
come  to  you  directly  I  got  home,  but  Mr.  Audley  insisted  upon  my 
stopping  to  talk  to  him." 

"  But  what  about,  my  love  ?"  asked  the  baronet.  "  What  could  Ro- 
bert havo  to  say  to  you  I" 

My  lady  did  not  answer  this  question.  Her  fair  head  drooped  upon 
her  husband's  knee,  her  rippling,  yellow  curls  fell  over  her  face. 

Sir  Michael  lifted  that  beautiful  head  with  his  strong  hands,  and  raised 
my  lady's  face.     The  firelight  shining  on  that  pale  face  lit  up  the  large, 
blue  eyes  and  showed  them  drowned  in  tears. 

"  Lucy,  Lucy  !"  cried  the  baronet,  "what  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  My 
love,  my  love!  what  has  happened  to  distress  you  in  th'19  manner?" 

Lady  Audley  tried   to  speak,  but  the  words  died  away  inar' 
upon  her  trembling  lips.     A    choking'  sensation  in  her  throat  seemed  to 

IS 


194  IADY  AUJUEY'S  SACHET. 

strangle  those  false  aud  plausil  .  her  only  an  t  tier 

enemies.     Sh'6>eDiild.!jno't  speak.     Tin 

dismal  lime-walk    had  grown  broke  into 

I  of  hysterical  It  was  no   si  mil  fact)  shook 

her  slender  frame  and  lore  at  her  like  some  ravenous  b< 

s  rent  her  piecemeal   with  its  hoi  :igth.     It  was  a  storm  of 

real  anguish  and  terror,  of  remprs  •  aud  u>,'.>cvy.  It  was  the  otic  wild 
outcry,  in  which  the  >1er  nature  j  better  of  the 

•it  was'.not  thus  that  she  had  meant  to  fight  her  terrible  duel  with  Ro- 
bert, Audley.     These  were  not   the   vj  vhich  she  had  im 

but  perhaps  no  artifice  which  she  could  have  devised  would 
ed  her  so  well  a-;  this  one  outburst   of  natuVflLgrief.     It 
■  and  to  the  very  soul.     It  be  and  terriWd  him.     It  r< 

strong  intellect. of  tfie^rnari  to  fusion-and  perplexity.''   It 

ck  at  the  one  weak  point  in  a  good  man's  nat  ure.     It  aj  r'aight 

to  Sir  Michael  Audley's  affection  for  his  .wife. 

Ah  Heaven  help  ,a  strong  man's  tender  weakues»for  the  toioYnan  he 
loves!     Heaven   pity   him   when   the  guilt)  creature  he  d  him 

andflomes  with  Iter   tears  and    la  ■')■■  to  tlirow  herself  at  hi 

in  self-abandonment  and  refliorse;  torturing  him  with  the  sight- Of  her 
agony;  rending   his  heart  with  her.  sobs>  laceratitjg; -'his  ith  her 

nr0ans — multiplying  her  own  sufferings  into  a  great  anguish  for  him  to 
bear;  multiplying  them  by  .twenty  f<"  hem  in  th 

'of  a  brave  man's  capacity  for  end n  ran 'e.  Heaven  forgive  him,  if  mad- 
dened by  that  cruel  agony,  the  balance  wavers  for  a  moment,  and  he  is 
ready  to  forgive  anytli'uvj ;  ready  to  t:  hed  one  to  th 

ter   of  his „ breast,   and   to   pardon,   that  w  manly 

honor,  urges  must   not   be   pardobed<     Pity  him,  pity  hi  in  !     The  wife's 
worst  remorse  when  she  stands   wjthbut^the  threshold  of  the  home  she 
■  ■r:ter ■more  is  not  equal    to  the  agony  of  the  htrsbaad  who 
closes  the  portal,  on   that  fa  mill  ce.     The  aqgdish  of 

the  mother  who  may  never  i  her  children  is  It 

tent  of  the  father  who  has  to  say  to  thdle  little  ones.  ••  My  darlwjgs, 
;  are  henceforth  motherless."     * 

■hael  Aud  ley  rose  from,  his  chair,    fcrei       H  ■Hon, 

and  ready  to  do  immediate  battle  with  the  person  who  ha  1  caused  his 
wile's  grief. 

'•  Lucyy'  he  said,  "  Lucy,T  insist  ^yw  vou'r  telling  me  what  and  who 
has  distressed  you.  i  it.     Whoever  ha  ■  i  shall, 

er  to  me  for  your  grief.  11  me  directly  Wimt  it  is." 

He  reseated  himself  and    I  the  drooping  figure' at Jhis  feet; 

calming  his  own  agitation  in  his  desire  to  soothe  his  wife's  distr 
"Tell  me  what  it  is,  my  dear,"  he  whispered,  I 
The  sharp  paroxysm  had  •  ■  A 

tering  light  shoi  Ehj  '■'  about 

pretty  ro<  uel  lines  \.  Ludjey 

observed 
firelight. 


LADY  AUDLKYS  SECRET.  195 

"I  am  very    '  said  ;  "  but  really  he  has  made  me  quite  hys- 

t 

'ho — who  :i  ;  ' 

.  •jihow — .,  ." 

iucy,  what  d     ■    i  meau  ?" 
"It  i  |  into  the  i 

walk  ed  to  talk  to  me, 

v.emand  he  rible  things  that " 

.    . 

h  !i  convulsive  fingers, 
upon  her  shoulder. 
;d  he  say,  Liu  . 
"Oh,   my  d.  now  eau  I  tell  ied  my  lady.      '  1  ki 

lii..  .  ". 

'■  .... 

Lady  Audk  .,  aent.     She  sat  look'  ht.be- 

fore  her  into   the  rs  still  locked  about  her  husband's 

hand. 

slowly,  he 

ink   from  uttering  them,  "have  you  r. 
i  afraid  i  ,ou — have  ■:  thought  Mr.  Audlej  a  little 

— a  little " 

"A  lit.tle.what,  my  darling  ." 
':A  little  out  of  his  mind,1'  faltered  Lady 
•     "Out  of  his  mind  !"  cried  Sir  Michael.  at  girl,  what  an 

.'  thinking  i 

aid  just  now,  ^.i;  thought  he  was  half  ma 

"  Did  1,  *  ;.  iber 

.  and  it  was  a  met&facon  de  parler,  that    meant   nothing    wliat- 
may   be  a  3i  —a  little  sjkipi  -. —  he 

:  with  wii  i"t  think  he  ha< 

voyr  great  intellei 
flir." 
'f  But  madness  is  sometimes  hereditary,"  said  ftiy  lady.  "  Mr.  Audley 

have,  inherited " 

"Tie  has   ii:!  mess  from  his  father's fisupily,"  interrupted 

Sir  Michael.     "-'The  Audley  shave  nev<    >  iums 

. 
from  his  mother's  family?" 

"  P<  ep  these  things  a  secret,"  said  my 

■*» 
••  1  doa't  th 

■    hi 

'•  1  have 

mauner.     If  you  li  l<     i  iard  I 
;ht,  Sir  M  ,ad.: 

"But  whal  did  h     ay,  Li  oy 


196  LADY  AODLSY'S  SBOHET 

"I  can  scarcely  tell  you.  You  can  see  how  much  he  has  stupefied  and 
bewildered  me.  I  believe  he  has  lived  too  long  alone  in  those  solitary 
Temple  chambers.  Perhaps  he  reads  too  much,  or  smokes  too  much. 
You  know  that  some  physicians  declare  madness  to  be  a  mere  illness  of 
the  brain — an  illness  to  which  any  one  is  subject,  and  which  may  be 
produced  by  given  causes,  and  cured  by  given  means." 

Lady  Audley's  ejes  were  still  fixed  upon  the  burning  coals  in  the  wide 
grate.  She  spoke  as  if  she,  had  been  discussing  a  subject  that  she  had 
often  heard  discussed  before.  She  spoke  as  if  her  mind  had  almost  wan- 
dered away  from  the  thought  of  her  husband's  nephew  to  the  wider  ques- 
tion of  madness  in  the  abstract. 

"  Why  should  he  not  be  mad  I"  resumed  my  lady.  "  People  are  in- 
sane for  years  and  years  before  their  insanity  is  found  out.  They  know 
that  they  are  mad,  but  they  know  how  to  keep  their  secret \  and,  per- 
haps, they  may  sometimes  keep  it  till  they  die.  Sometimes  a  paroxysm 
seizes  them,  and  in  an  evil  hour  they  betray  themselves.  They  commit 
a  crime,  perhaps.  The  horrible  temptation'of  opportunity  assails  them ; 
the  knife  is  in  their  hand,  and  the  unconscious  victim  by  their  side. 
They  may  conquer  the  restless  demon  and  go  away,  and  die  innocent  of 
any  violent  deed  ;  but  they  may  yield  to  the  horrible  temptation — the 
frightful,  passionate,  hungry  craving  for  violence  and  horror.  They 
sometimes  yield,  and  are  lost." 

Lady  Audley's  voice  rose  as  she  argued  this  dreadful  question.  The 
hysterical  excitement  from  which  she  had  only  just  recovered  had  left  its 
effects  upon  her,  but  she  controlled  herself,  and  her  tone  grew  calmer  as 
she  resumed  :-— 

"  Robert  Audley  is  mad,"  she  said*  decisively.  "  What  is  one  of  the 
strongest  diagnostics  of  madness-— what  is  the  first  appalling  sign  of 
mental  aberration  1  The  mind  becomes  stationary;  the  brain  stagnates ; 
the  even  current  of  reflection  is  interrupted  ;  the  thinking  power  of  the 
brain  resolves  itself  into  a  monotone.  As  the  waters  of  a  tideless  pool 
putrefy  by  reason"  of  their  stagnation,  the  mind  becomes  turbid  and  cor- 
rupt through  lack  of  action  ;  and  perpetual  reflection  upon  one  subject 
resolves  itself  into  monomania.  Robert  Audley  is  a  monomaniac.  The 
disappearance  of  his  friend,  George  Talboys,  grieved  and  bewildered  him. 
He  dwelt  upon  this  one  idea  until  he  lost  the  power  of  thinking  of  any 
thing  else.  The  one  idea  looked  at  perpetually  became  distorted  to  his 
mental  vision.  Repeat  the  commonest  word  in  the  English  language 
twenty  times,  and  before  the  twentieth  repetition  you  will  have  begun 
to  wonder  whether  the  word  which  you  repeat  is  really  the  word  you 
mean  to  utter.  Robert  Audley,  has  thought  of  his  friend's  disappear- 
ance until  the  one  idea  has  done  its  fatal  and  unhealthy  work.  He  rooks 
at  a  common  event  with  a  vision  that  is  diseased,  and  he  distorts  it  into 
a  gloomy  horror  engendered  of  his  own  monomania.  If  you  do  not 
want  to  make  me  as  mad  as  he  is,  you  must  never  let  me  see  him  again. 
He  declared  to-night  that  George  Talboys  was  murdered  in  this  place, 
and  that  he  will  root  up  every  tree  in  the  gardens,  and  pull  down  every 
briek  in  the  house,  in  his  search  for " 


LADY   A UD LEY'S  SECRET  197, 

My  lady  paused.  The  words  died  away  upon  her  lips.  She  had  ex- 
hausted herself  by  the  strange  energy  with  which  she  had  spoken.  She 
had  been  transformed  from  a  frivolous,  childish  beauty  into  a  woman, 
strong  to  argue  her  own  cause  and  plead  her  own  defence. 

"Pull  down  this  house  !"  cried  the  baronet.  "  George  Talboys  mur- 
dered at  Audley  Court!     Did  Robert  say  this,  Lucy?". 

''He  said  something  of  that  kiud — something  that  frightened  me  very 
much." 

"Then  he  must  be  mad,"  said  Sir  Michael,  gravely.  "  I'm  bewilder- 
ed, by  what  you  tell  me.  Did  he  really  say  this  Lucy,  or  did  you  mis- 
understand him." 

"  I — I — don't  thnjk  I  did,"  faltered  my  lady.  "  You  saw  how  fright, 
ened  I  was  when  I  first  came  in.  I  should  not  have  been  so  much  agita- 
ted if  he  hadn't  said  something  horrible."  * 

Lady  Audley  had  availdd  herself  of  the  very  strongest  arguments  by 
which  she  could  help  her  cause. 

"  To  be  sure,  my  darling,  to  be  sure,"'  answered  the  baronet.  "  What 
could  have  put  such  a  horrible  fancy  into  the  unhappy  boy's  head?  This 
Mr.  Talboys — a  perfect  stranger  to  all  of  us — murdered  at  Audley 
Court!  I'll  go  to  Mount  Stauning  to-night,  and  see  Robert.  1  have 
known  him  ever  since  he  was  a  baby,  and  I  cannot  be  deceived  in  him. 
If  there  is  really  anything  wrong,  ho  will  not  bo  able  to  conceal  it  from 
me.  • 

My  lady  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"That  is  rather  an  open  question,"  she  said.  "  It  ia generally  a  stran- 
ger who  is  the  first  to  observe,  any  psychological  peculiarity." 

The  big  words  sounded  strange  from  my  lady's  rosy  lips  ;  but  her 
newly  adopted  wisdom  had  a  certain  quaint  prettiuess  about  it,  which 
charmed  and  bewildered  her  husband. 

"  But  you  must  not  go  to  Mount  Stanning,  my  dear  darling,"  she  said, 
tenderly.  "  Remember  that  you  are  under  strict  orders  to  stay  in-doors 
ustil  the  weather  is  milder,  and  the  sun  shines  upon  this  cruel  ice-bound 
country." 

Sir  Michael  Audley  sank  back  in  his  capacious  chair  with  a  sigh  of 
resignation. 

"  That's  true,  Lucy,"  he  said  ;  "  wo  must  obey  Mr.  Dawson.  I  sup- 
pose Robert  will  come  to  see  me  to-morrow." 

"Yes,  dear.     I  think  he  said  he  would." 

"Then  we  must  wait  till  to-morrow,  my  darling.  I  can't  believe 
that  there  really  is  any  thing  wrong  with  the  poor  boy — I  can't  believe 
it,  Lucy." 

"Then  how  do  you  account  for  his  extraordinary  delusion  about  this 
Mr.  Talboys?"  asked  my  lady. 

Sir  Michael  shook  his  head. 

"  1  don't  know,  Lucy — I  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "  It  is  always 
so  difficult  to  believe  that  any  one.  <>l'the  calamities  that  continually  be- 
fal  our  fellow-men  will  ever  happen  to  us.  I  can't  believe  that  my 
nephew's  mind  i9  impaired — 1  can't  believe  it.     I — I'll  got  him  to  stop 


198  I'ADY   iODLE-Y'S  SCORER 

here,  Lucy,  and  Til  -watch  him  closely.     1  tell  you,  my  love,  if  the-; 
any  thing  wrong  I  am  sure  to  find"il  out.     !  c  oung 

man  who' has  always   been  the  same  to  me  as  my  own  son. 
darlin. .  why  were  yon   so  frightened  by  1! 
not  alive t  you." 

My  lady  sighed  piteously. 

"  You  must  think  gminded,  ,.ith 

rather  an  injured  air,  "  if 
irfdifFerently.     I  know  1 

"  Anrl  yon  shail  not,  my  dear — yon  shall  i 

"  Yo'u  said  just  now  yon  would  have  him   here,"    murmured    I 
Hey. 

':  But  I  will  not,  my  darling  girl,  if  his  present 
heaven^ !     Lucy,  can  you  imagine  for  a  moment  that  1  have  any  htj 
than  to  promote,  your  happiness?     I  will   consult  some-  Lofti 
.  ian  about'  Rob  rt,  nnd  let  him  discover  if  there  is  really  any  thing 
the  matter  with  my  poor  brother's, only  son.     You  shall   not*be  annov- 
ed,  L 

"  You  must  think  me  very  ufikihd,  dear,"  said  my  la dy„"  and  I  know 
J  dttglii  not  to  lie  annoyed  by  the  poor  pln'w  ;  but  he    rea 
..;  re  absurd  notion  into  his  head  about  me.". 

\'  About  you,  Lucy  !"  cried  Sir  Michael,   s 

"  Ye?,  dear.     lie  seems  to  connect  me  in  some  vague  manner — w 
I  cannot>  quite  understand — with  the  disappearance  of  Tal- 

boj  . 

"  Impossible,  Lucy  !     You  must  have  misunderstood  him." 

<'•.!  don't  thin!; 

"  Then  he  must  be  mod,"  said  the  baronet — "  he  must  be  mad.  I  will 
wait  till  he  goes  back  to  town,  and  then  send  some  one  to  his  fhamber.s 
to  talk  to  him.     Good  heavens!  what' a  mysterious  business  this  is." 

'•I  fear  I  have  distressed  yon,  darling,"  murmured  Lady  Audi 

"Yes,  mv  dear,  1  am 'very,  much  distressed  by. what  yon  '  '  me; 

but  you  were,  quite  right  to  talk  to  me  frankly  about  this  dreadful  busi- 
ness. I  must  think. ir.  over,  dearest,  and  try  and  decide  what  is  best  to 
be  done." 

Iviv  lady  rose  from  the.  low  ottoman   on  which  she   had  been  seated, 
ire  had  burned  down,  and  there  was  only  a  faint  glow  of  red  light 
i:;  the  room.      Lsicy  Audley  -bent,  over  her  husband's  chair,  and  put  her 
lips  to  his  broad  forehead. 

"  How  good  you  have-always  been  to  me,  dear,"  she  whispered  sol 
"  Yob  would  never  let  any  one  influence   vou  against  me,  would 
dear 

lluence  me  against  you  ?"  repeated  the  baronet.     "  No;  my  love." 
*     "  Because  you  know,  dear,",  pursued  my  lady,  "there  are  wicked, 
pie  as  well  as  mad  people  in  the  world,  and  there  rrray  be  some  persons 
to  whose  interest 'it  would  be  to  injure  me." 

.  ;iThey  h  it,  then,  my  dear,"  answered  Sir  Michael; 

''•  they  would  find  themselves  in  rather  a  dangerous  position  if  they  did." 


: '  ET. 

• 

om. 

(c  mof. 

I  :.ui- 

npany.     I 

and  la  the   rapid   th.n 

% 
•  I  !  Auclhey,"  she  Lliaught ;  "but 

;  v,  ill  have  cau 


tJHAPTEB  XXXI. 

pktitionJ 

The  divis'  ri  between  Lady  Atidfey  nnd  her  step-daiighl 

which  had  elapsed  since  the 
rt.      The:' 
pen  waifUi  inly  an  a 

inine  skirm  si 

-iini"ii ;  bjit  to  quarrel    >■ 

She  I  | 

I  l 

•niust  1 


200  LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET. 

nants  waving  and  cannon  roaring,  before  there  can  be  peaceful  treaties 
and  enthusiastic  shaking  of  hands.  Perhaps  the  union  between  France 
and  England  owes  its  greatest  force  to  the  recollection  of  Cressy  and 
Waterloo,  Navarino  and  Trafalgar.  We  have  hated  each  other  and  licked 
each  other  and  had  it  out,  as  the  common  phrase  goes  ;  and  we  can  afford 
now  to  fall  into  each  others'  arms  and  vow  eternal  friendship  and  ever- 
lasting brotherhood.  Let  us  hope  that  when  Northern  Yankeydom  has 
decimated  a\d  been  decimated,  blustering  Jonathan  may  fling  himself 
upon  his  Southern  brother's  breast,  forgiving  and  forgiven. 

Alicia  Audley  and  her  father's  pretty  wife' had  plenty  of  room  for  the 
comfortable  indulgence  of  their  dislike'in  the  spacious  old  mansion.  My 
lady  had  her  ©wil  apartments,  as  we  know — luxurious  chambers,  in 
which  all  conceivable  elegancies  had  been  gathered  for  the  comfort  of 
the* occupant.  Alicia  had  her  own  rooms  in  another  part  of  the  large 
house.  She  had  her  favorite  mare,  her  Newfoundland  dog,  arid. her 
drawing  materials,  and  she  made  herself  tolerable  happy.  She  was  not 
very  happy,  this  frank,  generous-hearted  girl,  for  it  was  scarcely  possi- 
ble that  she  could  be  altogether  at  ease  in  the  constrained  atmosphere 
of  the  Court.  Her  father  was  changed  ',  that  dear  father,  over  whom 
she  had  once  reigned  supreme  with  the  boundless  authority  of  a  spoiled 
child,  had  accepted  another  ruler  and  submitted  to  a  new\  dynasty.  Lit- 
tle by  little  my  lady's  pretty  power -made,  itself  felt  in  that  narrow 
household  ;  and  Alicia  saw  her  father  gradually  lured  across  the  gulf 
that  divided  Lady  Audley  from  her  step-daughter,  until  he  stood  at  last 
quite  upon  the  other  side  of  the  abyss,  and  looked  coldly  upon  his  only 
child  across  that  widening  chasm. 

Alicia  felt  that  he  was  lost  to  her.  My  lady's  beaming  smiles,  my 
lady's  winning  words,  my  lady's  radiant  glances  and  bewitching  graces 
had  done  their  work  of  enchantment,  and  Sir  Michael  had  grown  to  look 
upon  his  daughter  as  a  somewhat  wilful  and  capricious  young  person 
who  had  behaved  with  determined  unkindness  to  the  wife  he  loved. 

Poor  Alicia  saw  all  this,  and  bore  her  burden  as  well  as  she  could.  It 
seemed  very  hard  to  be  a  handsome  gray-eyed  heiress,  with  dogs  and 
horses  and  servants  at  her  command,  and  yet  to  be  so  much  alone  in  the 
world  as  to  know  of  not  one  friendly  ear  into  which  she  might  pour  her 
sorrows. 

"  If  Bob  was  good  for  any  thing,  I  could  have  told  him  how  unhappy 
I  am,"  thought  Miss  Audley  ;  ':  but  I  may  just  as  well  tell  Caesar  my 
troubles,  for  any  consolation  I  should  get  from  my  cousin  Robert." 

Sir  Michael  Audley  obeyed  his  pretty  nurse,  and  went  to  bed  at  a 
little  after  nine  o'clock  upon  this  bleak  March  evening.  Perhaps  the 
baronet's  bedroom  was  about  the  pleasantest^  retreat  that  an  invalid 
could'have  chosen  in  such  cold  and  cheerless  weather.  The  dark-green 
velvet  curtains  were  drawn  before  the.  windows  and  about  the  ponderous 
bed.  The  wood  fire  burned  redly  upon  the  broad  hearth.  The  reading 
lamp  was  lighted  upon  a  delicious  little  table  close  to  Sir  Michael's  pil- 
Jow,  and  a  heap  of  magazines  and  newspapers  had  been  arranged  by  my 
lady's  own  fair  hands  for  the  pleasure  of  the  invalid. 


LADT  AUDLSY'S  SSCREt  201 

Lady  Audley  sat  by  the  bedside  for  about  ten  minutes,  talking  to  her 
husband,  talking  very  seriously,  about  this  strange  and  awful  question 
— Robert  Audley's  lunacy  ;  but  at  the.  end  of  that  time  she  rose  and 
i  .:  le  her  husband  good-night. 

She  lowered  ihe  green  silk  shade  before  the  reading  lamp,  adjusting 
it  carefully  for  the  repose  of  the.  baronet's  eyes. 

';I  shall  leave  you,  dear,"  she  said.  "  If  you  enn  sleep,  so  much  tho 
Jbetter.  If  you  wish  to  read,  the  hooks  and  papers  are  close  to  you.  I 
will  leave  the  doors  between  the  rooms  open,  and  I  shall  heat  your  voice 
if  Von  call  nnv' 

Lady  Audley  went  through  her  dre---ingroom  into  the  boudoir,  where 
she  had  sat  with  her  husband  since  dinner. 

Every  evidence  of  womanly  refinement  was  visible  in  the  elegant 
chamber;  My  lady's  piano  was  open,  covered  with  scattered  shfti 
music  and  exquisitely-bound  collections  of  scenas  and  fantasias  which  no 
master  Deed  have  disdained  to  study.  My  lady's  easel  stood  near  tho 
window,  bearing  witness  to  my  lady's  artistic  talent,  in  the  shape  of  ;i 
water-colored  sketch  of  the  Court  and  gardens.  My  lady's  fairy-like 
embroideries  of  lace  and  muslin,  rainbow-hued  silks,  and  delic.itely-tiiil- 
ed  wools  littered  the  luxurious  apartment;  while  the  looking-glasses, 
cunningly  placed  at  angles  and  opposite  corners  by  an  artistic  uphol- 
sterer, multiplied  my  lady's  imago,  and  in  that  image  reflected  the  most 
beautiful  object  in  the  enchanted  chamber. 

Amid  all  this  lamplight,  gilding,  color,  wealth,  and  beauty,  Lucy  Aud- 
ley sat  down  on  a  low  seat  by  the  fire  to  think. 

If  Mr.  Holman  Hunt  could  have  peeped  into  the  pretty  boudoir,  I 
think  the  picture  would  have  been  photographed  upon  his  brain  to  be 
reproduced  by-an<J-by  upon  a  bishop's  half-length  for  the  glorification  of 
the  pre-Raphaelite  brotherhood.     My  lady  in  that  half-recumbent  atti- 
tude, with  her  elbow  resting  on  one  knee,  and  her  perfect  chin  supported 
by  her  hand,  the   rich  folds  of  drapery  falling  away  in  long  undulating 
lines  from  the  exquisite  outline  of  her  figure,  and  the  lumin'ous, 
colored  firelight  enveloping  her  in  a  soft  haze,  only  broken  by  the  golden  ' 
glitter  of  her  yellow  hair — beautiful  'n  herself,  but  made  bewilderingly 
beautiful  by   the  gorgeous   surroundings  which  adorn  the  shrine  of  her 
Liveliness.     Drinking  cups  of  gold  and  ivory,  chiselled  by  Benvenufo 
Cellrni ;  cabinets  of  buhl   a>id  porcelain,  bearing  the  cipher  of  Austrian 
Marie-Antoinette,  amid  devices  of  rosebuds  and  true-lover-*  ku-K  birds 
and  Butterflies,  cupidons  and  sheperdesses,  goddesses,  courtiers,  oofetfl 
and  milkmaids;  statuettes  of  Parian  marble  and  biscuist  china;  gilded 
baskets  of  hothouse  flowers;  fantastical  caskets  of  Indian  filigree-work  ; 
fragile  tea-cups  of  tourquoise  china,  adorned  by  medallion  miniatures  of 
Louis   the  Great  and   Louis  the  Well-beloved,   Louise  de  la  Val 
Athenais   de  Montcspan,   and   Marie   Jeanne   Gomard  de  Vaubernier ; 
cabinet   pictures  and   gilded   mirrors,  shimmering  satin  and  diaphonoUs 
lace;  all  that  gold  can  buy  or  art  devise  had  been  gathered  tog<  thcr  for 
the  beautification  of  this  quiet  chamber   in    which   my  lad 
to  the  moaning  of  the  shrill   March  wind  and  the  flapping  of  the  ivy 


EY'S  SEOR 

*  \ 

very 
'  if  I  v 

■ 
and  I  can  • 
th  :     :  ■■■ 

i  carvings 

0  it.  pleasure,  had  pass 

Six.  01 

had  vvan- 

I  .far  away  iuti  ry,  terror 

the  treasures  that  had  j  :  mid 

i  her  no  pi                                    '    •  ;rn  Ihfcp  a 

pon  them  .  them  in 

•  thine-?;  that  would,  have  inspired  her  with  an  awful 
ribleiejoicin  rt  Aiidley,  her  j  n  leray;,  her  lin- 

ing pursue  :',  she  would 

1  is  bier. 

e.i  lained  for  Lucre  liarine 

iful  boundary  line  between  innocence  and  guilt 

:de? 

f  ft  for  th 
1  they   must  have 

r   sins  of 
;  the  enormity 
if  Hell,"  which  made  them  gr 
sinful  ei 

by  the  fire,  in  her  lonely  ehimber,  with  her  large1, 
]    upon   I  irfs  of  lurid  crimson  in  the 

far  awa\!  from  the 
.-■-.. 

esses 

mscienee. 

olive   re'  l       time  in 

in  the  glass  and  diseov  was/bbaii- 

he   had  firs    b  to  loolcupan 

ission  whi  be  a 

\  youth-   • 

ih  mat  fairy  dower  of  beauty 

her  to   1  :   and  cruel,  indifferent  to  the  joys  and 


•'»Y  audl  203 

■ 

- 

\ 
I 

'*  1  was  "  she  thoi 

i 

i 

-  ■ 

m   the   h' 

-" 

■ 

trith 

i 

I 
;;ly  storing  at  the  I 


\ 


204  LA.OV   AUDLKTS  SECRET. 

"Icnn't  plot  horrible  things."  she  muttered,  presently  ;  "my  brain 
isn't  strong  enough,  or  I'm  not"  nicked  enough,  or  brave  enough.  If  I 
met  Robert  Audley  in  those  lonely  gardens,  as  I " 

The  current  <*f  her  thoughts  was  interrupted  by  a  cautious  knocking 
at  her  door.  She  rose  suddenly,  startled  by  any  sound  in  the  stillness 
'of  her  room.  She  rose,  and  threw  herself  into  a  low  chair  near  the  fire. 
She  flung  her  beautiful  head  back  upon  the  soft  cushions,  and  took  a 
book  from  the  table  near  her. 

Insignificant  as  this  action  was,  it  spoke  very  plainly.  It  spoke  very 
plainly  Of  ever-recurring  fears — of  fatal  necessities  for  concealment — of 
a  mind  that  in  its  silent  agonies  was  ever  alive  to  the  importance  of  out- 
ward effect.  It  told  more  plainly  than  anything  else  could  have  told 
how  complete  an  actress  my  lady  had  been  made  by  the  awful  necessity 
of  her  life. 

The  modest  rap  at  the  boudoir-door- was  repeated. 

"  Come  in,"  cried  Lady  Audley  in  her  liveliest  tone. 

The  door  was  opened  with  that  re*  fretful  noiselessness  peculiar  to  a 
well-bred  servant,  and  a  young  worn  .  plainly  dressed,  and  carrying 
some  of  the  cold  Marck  winds  in  the  folds  of  her  garments,  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  apartments  and  lingered  near  the  door,  waiting  permis- 
sion to  approach  the  inner  regions  of  my  lady's  retreat: 

It  was  Phoebe  Marks,  the  pale-faced  wife  of  the  Mount  Stanning  inn- 
keeper. 

"  1  beg  pardon,  my  lady,  for  intruding  without  leave,"  she  said;  "but 
I  thought  I  might  venture  to  come  straight  up  without  waiting  for  per- 
mission." 

"  Yes,  yes,  Phoebe,  to  be  sure.  Take  oiTyour  bonnet,  you  wretched, 
cold-looking  creature,  and  come  and  sit  down  here." 

Lady  Audley  pointed  to  the  low  ottoman  upon  which  she  had  herself 
been  seated  a  few  minutes  before.  The  lady's  maid  had  often  sat  upon 
it  listening  to  her  mistress's  prattle  in  the  old  days,  when  she  had  been 
my  lady's  chief  companion  and  confidante. 

"  Sit  down  here,  Phcebe,"  Lady  Audley  repeated;  "sit  down  here 
and  talk  to  me.  I'm  very  glad  you  came  here  to-night.  I  was  horribly 
lonely  in  this  dreary  place." 

•  My  lady  shivered  and  looked  round  at  the  bright  collection  of  brie  d 
brae  as  if  the  Sevres  and  bronze,  the  buhl  and  ormolu,  had  been  the 
mouldering  adornments  of  some  ruined  castle.  The  dreary  wretched- 
ness of  her  thoughts  had  communicated  itself  to  every  object  about  her, 
and  all  outer  things  took  their  color  from  that  weary  inner  life  which 
held  its  slow  course  of  secret  anguish  in  her  breast.  She  had  spoken 
the  entire  truth  in  saying  that  she  was  glad  of  her  lady's  maid's  visit. 
Her  frivolous  nature  clung  to  this  weak  shelter  in  the  hour  of  her  fear 
and  suffering.  There  were  sympathies  between  her  and  this  girl,  who 
was  like  herself,  inwardly  as  well  as  outwardly — like  herself,  selfish,  and 
cold,  and  cruel,  eager  for  her  own  advancement,  and  greedy  of  opulence 
and  elegance  ;  angry  with  the  lot  that  had  been  cast  her,  and  , weary  of 
dull  dependence.     M.y  lady  hated  Alicia  for  her  frank,  passionate,  gen- 


LAi)T  AU  BUST'S  SWQBX.  2'.-o 

erous,  daring  nature  ;  .she  hated  her  step-daughter,  and  clung  to  (his  pale- 
faced,  pale-haired  girl,  whom  she  thought  neither  better  nor  worse  than 
herself. 

Phoebe '"Marks  obeyed  her  late  mistress's  commands,  and  took  off  her 
bonnet  before  seating  herself  on  the  ottoman  at  Lady  Audley's  feet. 
Her  smooth  bands  of  light  hair  were  unruffled  by  the  March  winds;  her 
trimly-made  drab  dress  and  linen  collar  were,  as  neatly  arranged  as  they 
could  have  been  had  she  only  that  moment  completed  her  toilet. 

"Sir  Michael' is  better,  I  hope,  my  lady,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  Phcebe,  much  better.  He  is  asleep.  You  may  close  that  door," 
added  Lady  Audley  with  a  motion  of  her  head  toward  the  door  of  com- 
munication between  the  rooms,  which  had  been  left  open 

Mrs.  Marks  obeyed  submissively,  and  then  returned  to  her  scat. 

"  1  run  very,  very  unhappy,  Phoebe,"  my  lady  said  fretfully  ;  "  wretch- 
edly miserable.'' 

"About  the — secret1?"  asked  Mrs.  Marks,  in  a  half  whisper. 

My  lady  did  not  notice  that  question..  She  resumed  in  tin-  same  com- 
plaining tone.  She  was  glad  to  be  able  to  complain  even  to  this  lad;,  "s 
maid.  She  had  brooded  over  her  fears,  and  had  suffered  in  secret  so 
long,  that  it  was  an  inexpressible  relief  to  her  t<  Joud. 

"  I  am  cruelly  persecuted  and  harrassed,  Phoebe  Marks,"  she  said. 
"I  am  pursued  and  tormented  by  a  man  whom  1  never  injured,  whom 
I  have  never  wished  to  injure.  I  am  never  suffered  to  rest  by  this  re- 
lentless tormentor,  and " 

She  paused,  staring  at  the  fire  again,  as  she  had  done  in  her  loneliness, 
Lost  again  in  the  dark  intricacies  of  thoughts  which  wandered  hither  and 
thither  in  a  dreadful  chaos  of  terrified  bewilderment,  she  could  not  come 
to  any  fixed  conclusion. 

Phoebe  Marks  watched  my  lady's  face,  looking  upward  at  her 
mistress  with  pale,  anxious  eyes,  that  only   relaxed   their  watchfulness 
when  lady  Aud ley's  glance  met  that  of  her  companion. 

"I  think  1  know  whom  you  mean,  my  lady,"  said  the  inn-keeper's 
wife,  after  a  pause;  "  I  think  I  know  who  it  is  who  is  so  cruel  to  J 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  answered  my  lady,  bitterly  ;  '■  n 
Becrets.     You  know  all  about  it,  no  doubt." 

"The  person  is  a  gentleman — is  he  n<\t,  my  lady  ?" 

"Y. 

"A  gentleman  who  came  to  the  Castle  Inn  two,  months  ago,  when  I 
warned  you " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  answered  my  lady,  impatiently. 

"  1  thought  so.     The  same  gentleman   is  at  our   place   to-night. 
lady." 

Ltdy  Audley  started  up  from  her  chair — started  up   as    if  she   v 
have  done  son:  Derate  In  her  despairing  fury ;  but  she  sank 

again  with  a  weary,  querulous  sigh.     Whal  oonld  such  a  feeble 

creature  v.  i  but  wind  like  s 

hunted  hare  till  sin    found  her  wa\  g-point  of  the 

chase,  to  be  there  trampled  down  by  her  pursuers  ? 


i  h.    He 

here  to  w  ! 

w   a  trj  ij  irt  of  an- 

\  on  have  left  ih<  en  to-' 


ill,  my  lad  aid  ;.  "no 

i 

."     ■  ,  ;"*".' 

:'.j.i  ca'ii 

■'  ■  ah- 

i-    ,  Ted,  iw  t  t!l  •.     I  toltl 

Lqke.that  it    v  ;  this  iavoY,  and 

done  fur  i  •     together; 

■  but--  down  with  his  lou/lj  bjusterln  id  he  made 

". 
"Yi  I  '  udley,  impatiently,  "  I  know  that.     I  want, 

■to  know  vvhy  you  have-come." 

«'W  "now,   my   lady,"  answered    Phoebe,   half  reluctantly, 

ay  to  him,  ]   can', 
s's  not  sober;  and  when  hrfs  drinking  with 
m,  and  d -hiking,  perhaps,  e\  than  they 

.  -!y  'that  his  head   can    be    very   clear  for   accounts.     If  it 
we  should  have  been  ruined  before  this  ;  and  hard  as 
lied,  1  haven't  b%eo  able  to  keep  I  off.     You  remember  giv- 

j   for  the  brewer's  bill,  my  lady?" 
Y'es,  [  remember  very  wejl,"  answered  Lady  Audley,  with  a  bitter 
ted  that  money,  to;  pay^-.my  own  bilk,'.' 
•,•  you  didj  -aid  for  me  to  have 

>u  for  it,  Miter  all  that  we'd  received  from  you  b 
But  that  isn't  the  worst :  when,  Luke  sent  me  down  here  to  beg  the  favor 
it  help,  he  never  told  me  I, hat  the  Christmas  rent  was  still  owing: 
but  it  was,  my  lady,  and  it's  owing  now,  and — and   then  iljff  in 

the  h  aqd  we're  to  be  sold  up  to-morrow  unless-; " 

"Uftless  I  pay  your  rent,  L suppose,"  cried  Lucy  Audley,  "I  might 
have  guessed  what  was  coming."    . 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  my  lady,  1  wouldn't  have  asked  it,"  sobbed  Phcebe 
Marks,  ;'  but*he  made  me  oome. 

':Yes,"  answered  my  lady,  bitterly,  "he  made  you  come;  and  he. 
will  make  you  come  whenever  he  pica  >  ;,  and  whenever  he  wants  money 
for  tl  aiioii  of  his  low  vices  ;  and  you  and.  1:  oners 

I  live,  or  as  long  as  I  have  give ;  for  I  sup 

when  my  purse  is  empty  and  in;   l|  ,  you' and    your  hu; 

will  turirupon  me  and  sell  me  to  the  highest  bidder.     \)u  you   ki 


DY  AUDLEfS  . 

i 

■ 

- 
I 

"Oh,  i 


206  '  U^lf  DUDLEY'S  SfiGSfiT. 

"  You  know  what  a  queer  old  place  the  Castle  is,  my  lady  ;  all  tumble- 
down  woodwork,  and  rotten  rafters,  and  such  like.  The  Chelmsford  In- 
surance Company  won't  insure  it ;  for  they  *say  if  the  place  did  happen 
to  catch  fire  upon  a  windy  night  it'  would  blaze,  away  like  so  much  tin- 
der, and  nothing  in  the  world  could  save  it.  Well,  Luke  knows  this ; 
and  the  landlord  has  warned  him  of  it  times  and  often,  for  he  lives  close 
against  us,  and  he  keeps  a  pretty  sharp  eye  upon  all  my  husband's 
goings  on  ;  but  when  Luke's  tipsy  he  doesn't  know  what  he's  about,  and 
only  a  week  ago  he  left  a  candle  burning  in  one  of  the  outhouses,  and 
the  flame  caught  one  of  the  rafters  of  the  sloping  roof,  and  if  it  hadn't' 
been  for  me  finding  it  out  when  I  went  round  the  house  the  last  thing, 
we  should  have  all  been  burnt  to  death,  perhaps.  And  that's  the  third 
time  the  same  kind  of  thing  has  happened  in  the  six  months  we've  had 
the  place,  and  you  can't  wonder  that  I'm  frightened,  can  you,  my  lady?" 

My  lady  had  not  wondered,  she  had  not  thought  about- the  business  at 
all.  She  had  scarcely  listened  to  these  common-place  details ;  why 
should  she  care  for  this  low-born  waiting^woman's  perils  and  troubles'? 
had  she  not  her  own  terrors,  her  own  soul-absorbing- perplexities  to  usurp 
every  thought  of  which  her  brain  was  capable1? 

She  did  not  make  any  remark  upon  that  which  poor  Phoebe  had  just 
told  her ;  she  scarcely  comprehended  what  had  been  said,  until  some 
moments  after  the  girl  had  finished  speaking,  when  the  words  assumed 
their  full  meaning,  as  some  words  do  after  they  have  been  heard  with- 
out being  heeded. 

"  Burnt  in  your  beds,"  said  my  lady,  at  last.  "  It  would  have  been 
a  good  thing  forme  if  that  precious  creature,  your  husband,  had  been 
burned  .-in  his  bed  before  to-night." 

A  vivid  picture  flashed  upon  her  as  she  spoke.  The  picture  of  that 
frail  wooden  tenement,  the  Castle  Inn,  reduced  to  a  roofless  chaos  of  lath 
and  plaster,  vomiting  flames  from  its  black  mouth,  and  spitting  blazing 
sparks  upward  toward  the  cold  night  sky* 

She  gave  a  weary  sigh  as  she  dismissed  this  image  from  her  restless 
brain.  She  would  be  no  better  off  even  if  this  enemy  should  be  forever 
silenced.  She  had  another  and  far  more  dangerous  foe — a  foe  who  was 
not  to  be  bribed  or  bought  off,  though  she  had  been  as  rich  as  an  empress. 

"  I'll  give  you  the  money  to  send  this  bailiff  away,"  my  lady  said,  af- 
ter a  pause.  "  I  must  give  you  the  last  sovereign  in  my  purse,  but 
what  of  that1?  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  I  dare  not  refuse  you." 

Lady  Audley  rose  and  took  the  lighted  lamp  from  her  writing-table. 
"..The  money  is  in  my  dressing-room,"  she  said ;  "  I  will  go  and  fetch  it." 

**  Oh,  my  lady,"  exclaimed  Phcebe,  suddenly,  "  I  forgot  something ;  I 
was  in  such  a  way  about  this  business  that  I  quite  forgot  it." 

"  Quite  forgot  what  ?" 

"  A  letter  that  was  given  me  to  bring  to  you,  my  lady,  just  before  I 
left  home." 

"  What  letter  ?" 

"  A  letter  from  Mr.  Audley.  He  heard  my  husband  mention  that  I 
was  coming  down  here,  and  he  asked  me  to  carry  this  letter." 


LADY  AUDLET'S  SECRET  209 

Lady  Audley  set  the  lamp  down  upon  the  table  nearest  to  her,  and 
held  out  her  hand  to  receive  the  letter.  Phoebe  Marks  could  scarcely 
fail  to  observe  that  the  little  jewelled  hand  shook  like  a  leaf. 

"  Give  it  me — give  it  me,"  she  cried  ;  "  let  me  see  what  more  he'  has 
.to  say." 

Lady  Audley  almost  snatched  the  letter  from  Phoebe's  hand  in  her 
wild  impatience.  She  tore  open  the  envelope  and  flung  it  from  her  ;  she 
could  scarcely  unfold  the  sheet  of  note-paper  in  her  caper  excitement. 

The  letter  was  very  brief.-    It  contained  only  these  words : — 

"  Should  Mrs.  George  Talboys  really  have  survived  the  date  of  her 
supposed  death,  as  recorded  in  the  public  prints,  and  upon  the  tombstone 
in  Ventnor  churchyard,  and  should  she  exist  in  the  person  of  the  lady 
suspected  and  accused  by  the  writer  of  this,  there  can  be  no  great  diffi- 
culty in  finding  some  one  able  and  willing  to  identify  her.  Mrs.  Bark- 
amb,  the  owner-  of  North  Cottages,  Wildernsea,  would  no  doubt  consent 
to  throw  some  light  upon  this  matter;  either  to  dispel  a  delusion  or  to 
confirm  a 'suspicion.     » 

"  Robert  Audley. 

"  The  Castle  Inn,  Mount  Stanning,  March  3d,  1859." 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE  RED  LIGHT  IN  THE  SKY. 

My  lady  crushed  the  letter  fiercely  in  her  hand,  and  flung  it  from  her 
•into  the  flames. 

"  If  he  stood  before  mo  now,  and  I  could  kill  him,"  she  muttered  in  a 
strange  inward  whisper,  "  I  wpuld  do  it — I  would  do  it !"  She  snatched 
up  the  lamp  and  rushed  into  the  adjoining  room.  She  shut  the  door  be- 
hind her.  She  could  not  endure  any  witness  of  her  horrible  despair — 
she  could  endure  nothing,  neither  herself  nor  her  surroundings. 

The  door  between  my  lady's  dressing-room  and  the  bed-chamber  in 
which  Sir  Michael  lay,  had  been  left  open.  The  baronet  slept  peaceful- 
ly, his  noble  face  plainly  visible  in  the  subdued  lamplight.  His  breath- 
ing was  low  and  regular,  his  lips  curved  in  a  half-smile — a  smile  of  ten- 
der happiness  which  he  often  wore  when  he  looked  at  his  beautiful  wife, 
the  smile  of  an  all-indulgent  father,  who  looks  admiringly  at  his  favor- 
ite child. 

Some  touch  of  womanly  feeling,  some  sentiment  of  compassion  soft- 
ened Lady  Audley's  glance  as  it  fellf  upon  that  noble,  reposing  figure. 
For  a  moment  the  horrible  egotism  of  her  own  misery  yielded  to  her 

14 


210  ''ADY  AUDLEY'S  SSCliET. 

pitying  tenderness  for  another.  It  was  perhaps  only  a  semi-selfish  ten- 
derness after  all,  in  which  pity  for  herself  was  as  powerful  as  pity  for 
her  husband  ;  but  for  once  in  a  way,  her-  thoughts  ran  out  of  the  narrow 
groove  of  her  own  terrors  and  her  own  troubles  to  dwell  with  prophetic 
grief  upon  the  coining  sorrows  of  another. 

"If  they  make  him  believe,  how  wretched  he  will  be,"  she  thought. - 

But  intermingled  with  that  thought  there  was  another — there  was  the 
thought  of  her  lovely  face,  her  bewitching  manner,  her  arch  smile,  her 
low,  musical  laugh,  which  was  like  a  peal  of  silvery  bells  ringing  across 
a  broad  expanse  of  flat  meadow-land  and  a 'rippling  river  in  the  misty 
summer  evening.  She  thought  of  all  these  things  with  a  transient, thrill  ■ 
of  triumph,  which  was  stronger  even  than  her  terror. 

If  Sir  Michael  Audley  lived  to  be  a  hundred  years  old,  whatever  he 
might  learn  to  believe  of  her,  however  he  might  grow  to  despise  her, 
would  he  ever  be  able  to 'disassociate  her  from  these  attributes  %  No; 
a  thousand  times,  no.  To  the  last  hour  of  his  life  his  memory  would 
present  her  to  him  invested  with  the  loveliness  that  had  first  won  his 
enthusiastic  admiration,  his  devoted  affection,  ifer  worst  enemies  could 
not  rob  her  of  that  fairy  dower  which  had  been  so  fatal  in  its  influence 
upon  her  frivolous  mind. 

She  paced  up  and  down  the  dressing-room  in  the  silvery  lamplight, 
pondering  upon  the  strange  letter  which  she  had  received  from  Robert 
Audley.  She  walked  backward  and  forward  in  that  monotonous  wan- 
dering for  some  time  before  she  was  able  to  steady  her  thoughts — before 
she  was  ablo  to  bring  the  scattered  forces  of  her  narrow  intellect  to  bear 
upon  the  one  all-important  subject  of  the  threat  contained  in  the  barris- 
ter's letter. 

"  He  will  do  it,"  she  said,  between  her.  set  teeth — "  he  will  do  it  un- 
less I  get  him  into  a  lunatic  asylum  first;  or  unless " 

She  did  not  finish  the  thought  in  words.  She  did  not  even  think  out 
the  sentence;  but  some  new  and  unnatural  impulse  in  her  heart  seemed 
to  beat  each  syllable  against  her  breast. 

The  thought  was;  this  :  "He  will  do  it,  unless  some  strange  calamity 
befals  him,  and  silences  litm  forever."  The  red  blood' flashed  up  into 
my  lad vV  face  with  as  sudden  and  transient  a  blaze  as  the  flickering 
flame  of  a  fire,  and  died  as  suddenly  away,  leaving  her  more  pale  than 
winter  snow.  Her  hands,  which  hacVbefore  been  locked  convulsively  to- 
gether, fell  apart  and  dropped  heavily  at  her  sides.  She  stopped  in  her 
rapid  pacing  to  and  fro-estopped  as  Lot's  wife  may  have  stopped,  after 
that  fatal  backward  glance  at  the  perishing  city —with  every  pulse  slacken- 
ing, with  every  drop  of  blood  congealing  in  her  veins,  in  the  terrible 
process  that  was  to  transform  her  from  a  woman  into,  a  statue. 

Lady   Audley  stood  still  for  about  five  minutes,  in  that  sffrangely 
statuesque  attitude,  her  head  erect,'  her  eyes  staring  straight  before  her—  • 
staring  far  beyond  the  narrow  boundary  of  her  charnber  wall',  into  dark 
distances  of  peril  and  horror. 

But  by -and- by  she  started  from'that  rigid  attitude  almost  as  abruptly 
as  sh>  had  fallca  into  it.     She  roused  herself  from  that  semi-lethargy. 


LA1>V    AL'DLEYV  SECUBff.  211 

She  walked  rapidly   to  her  dressing ;-t  ing  herself  before  it, 

pushed  away  the  litter  of  golden-stoppi  -.d- bottles  and  delicate  china 
essence-boxes,  and  looked  at  her  reflection  in  the  large,  oval  glass.  She 
waa  very  pale;  but  there  was  i;o,.  other  trace  of  agitation  visible  in  her 
girlish  face.  The  lines  of  her  exquisitely-moulded  lips  were  so  beautiful. 
it  was  ouly  a  very  close  observer  who  could  have  perceived  I 

ity  that  was  unusual  io  them.     She  taw  thi  .  and  tried 

to  smile  away  that  statue-like  immobility  ;  but  to-night  the  rosy  lips 
refused  to  obey  her,  they  were  firmly  locked,  and  were  no  longer  the 
slaves  of  her  will  and  pleasure.  All  the  latent,  forces  of  her  character 
concentrated  themselves  in  this  one  feature.  She  might  command  her 
;  but  she  could  not  control  the  muscles  of  her  mouth.  She  rose 
from  before  her  dressing-table  and  took  a  dark  velvet  cloak  and  bonnet 
from  the  recessess  of  her   wardrobe,  and  clrc  rself  for  walking. 

The  little  ormolu  clock  on  the  chimney-piece  struck  the  quarter  after 
elevon  tvhile  Lady  Audley  was  employed  in  this  manner;  five  minutes 
afterward,  she  re-entered  the  room  in  which  she  had  left  Phcebe  Marks. 

The  innkeeper's  wife  was  sitting  before  the  low  fender  very  much  in 
the  same  attitude  u6  that  in  which  her  late  mistress  had  brooded  over 
that  lonely  hearth  earlier  in  the  evening.  Phcebe  .had  replenished  the 
fire,  and  had  reas-umed  her  bonnet  and  shawl.  She  was  anxious  to  get 
home  to  that  brutal  husband,  who  was  only  too  apt 'to  fall  into  some 
mischief  in  her  ausence.  She  looked  up  as  Lady  Audley  entered  the 
room,  and  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise  at  seeing  her  late  mistress 
in  a  walking  costume. 

"  My  lady,"  she  cried,  "  you  are  not  going  out  to-night  V 

•  Yes,  I  am,  Phoebe,"  Lady  Audley  answered,  very  quietly;  "I  am 
going  to  Mount  Staiming  with  you  to  see  this  bailiff,  and  to  pay  and  dis- 
miss him  myself." 

"  But  my  lady,  you  forget  what  the  time  is ;  you  can't  go  out  at  such 
an  hour."v 

Lady  Audley  did  not  answer.  She  stood,  with  h^r  finger  resting 
lightly  upon  the  tlandlc  of  the  bell.  meditatine;  quietly. 

"The  stables  are  always  locked,  and  the  men  in  bod  by  ten  o'clock, " 
she  murmured,  "when  v.  .  rrible  hubbub 

to  get  a  carriage  ready  ;  but  yet  I  dare  say  one  of  the  servants  could 
manage  the  matter  quietly  for  me." 

"But  why  should  you  go  tonight  my  lady  f"  cried  Phoebe  Marks. 
"To-morrow  will  do  quite  as   well.     A  week  hence  will   do  as  well. 
Our  landlord  would  take  the  man  away  if  he  had  your  promise  to  I 
the  debt." 

Lady  Audley  took  no  notice  of  this  interrupt  b  went  hastily 

into  the  dressiug-room   and   flung  off  her  bnnet  and  r  loak.  and  ih<  < 
turnexT  to   the  boudoir,   in   her  simple  dii  with  her 

brushed  carob     ,  from  her  face. 

"  N  be  Mark's,  listen  to 

wrlsl  in  a  low, 

air  that   challenged  contradiction  and  command 


212  .  lady  AUDysrs  SECRET. 

to  me,  Phoebe,"  she  repeated.     K  I  am  going  to  the  Castle  Inn  to-night ; 
whether  it  is  early  or  late  is  of  very  little  consequence  to  me ;  I  have 
set  my  mind  upon  going,  and  I  shall  go.     You  have  asked  me  why,  and 
1  have  told  you.     1  am  going  in  order  that  I  may  pay  tnis  debt  myself; 
and  that  I  may  see  for  myself  that  the  money  I  give  is  applied  to  the 
purpose  for  which  I  give  it.     There  is  nothing  out  of  the  common  course 
of  life  in  my  doing  this.     I  am  going  to  do  what  other  women  in  my 
position  very  often  do.     I  am  going  to  assist  a  favorite  servant." 
"  But  it's  getting  on  for  twelve  o'clock,  my  lady,"  pleaded  Phoebe. 
Lady  Audley  frowned  impatiently  at  this  interruption. 
"If  my  going  to  your  house  to  pay  this  man  should  be  known,"  she 
continued,  still  retaining  her  hold  of  Phqebe's  wrist,  "  I  am  ready  to  an- 
swer for  my  conduct ;  but  I  would  rather  that  the  business  should  be 
kept  quiet.     I  think  that  I  can  leave  this  house  arid  return  to  it  without 
being  seen  by  any  living  creature,  if  you  will  do  as  I  tell  you." 

"  I  will  do  anything  that  you  wish,  my  lady,"  answered  Phoebe,  sub- 
missively. 

"Then  you  will  wish  me  good-night  presently,  when  my  maid  comes 
into  the  room,  and  you  will  suffer  her  to  show  you  out  of  the  house. 
You  will  cross  the  courtyard  and  wait  for  me  in  the  avenue  upon  the 
other  side  of  the  archway.  It  may  be  half  an  hour  before  I  am  able  to 
join  you,  for  I  nrust  not  leave  my  room  till  the  servants  have  all  gone 
to  bed,  but  you  may  wait  for  me  patiently,  for  come  what  may,  I  will 
join  you." 

Lady  Audley 's  face  was  no  longer  pale.  An  unnatural  crimson  spot 
burned  in  the  centre  of  each  rounded  cheek,  and  an  unnatural  lustre 
gleamed  in  her  great  blue  eyes.  She  spoke  with  an  unnatural  clearness 
and  an  unnatural  rapidity.  She  had  altogether  the  appearance  and  man- 
ner of  a  person  who  has  yielded  to  the  dominant  influence  of  some  over- 
powering excitement.  Phoebe  Marks  stared  at  her  late  mistress  in  mute 
bewilderment.     She  began  to  fear  that  my  lady  was  going  mad. 

The  bell  which  Lady  Audley  rang  was  answered  by  the  smart  lady's- 
maid  who  wore  rose-colored  ribbons,  and  black  silk  fowns,  and  other 
adornments  which  were  unknown  to  the  humble  people  who  sat  below 
the  salt  in  the  good  old  days  when  servants  wore  linsey-woolsey. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  it  was  so  late,  Mdrtin,"  said  my  lady,  in  that 
gentle  tone  which  always  won  for  her  the  willing  service  of  her  inferiors. 
"  I  have  been  talking  with  Mrs.  Marks  and  have  let  the  time  slip  by  me. 
I  shan't  want  any  thing  tonight,  so  you  may  go  to  bed  when  you  please."" 
"  Thank  you,  my  lady,"  answered  the  girl,  who  looked  very  sleepy, 
and  had  some  difficulty  in  (repressing  a  yawn  even  in  her  mistresses's " 
presence,  for  the  Audley  household  usually  kept  very  early  hours.  "  I'd  , 
better  show  Mrs.  Marks  out,  my  lady,  hadn't  I,"  asked  the  maid,  "  be- 
fore I  go  to  bed  T 

"  Oh,  yes,  to  be  «ure  ;  you  can  let  Phoebe  out.     All  the  other  servants 
have  gone  to  bed,  then,  I  suppose  V* 
"  Yes,  my  lady." 
Lady  Audley  laughed  as  she  glanced  at  the  timepiece. 


L&D1  AODLEY'S  S15CRET.  213 

"  We  "have  been  terribly  dissipated  up  here.  Phcebe,"  shb  said.  "Good- 
night.    You  may  tell  your  husband  that  his  rent  shall  be  paid.*' 

"Thank  you  very  much,  my  lady,  and  pood-night,"  murmured  Phoebe, 
as  she  backed  out  of  the  room,  followed  by  the  lady's  maid. 

Lady  Audley  listened  at  the  door',  waiting  till  the  muffled  sounds  of 
their  footsteps  died  away  in  the  octagon  chamber  and  on  the  carpeted 
staircase.  ' 

"  Martin  sleeps  at  the  top  of  the  house."  she  said,  "half  a  mile  away 
from  this  room.     In  ten  minutes  I  may  safely  make,  my  escape." 

She  went  back  into  her  dressing-room,  and  put  on  her  cloak  and  bon- 
net for  the  second  time.  The  unnatural  color  still  burnt  like  a  flame  in 
her  cheeks;  the  unnatural  light  still  glittered  in  her  eye^.  The  excite- 
ment which  she  was  under  held  her  in  so  strong  a  spell  that  neither  her 
mind  nor  her  body  seemed  to  have  any  consciousness  of  fatigue.  IIow- 
i  ver  verbose  I  may  be  in  my  description  of  her  feelings,  I  can  never  des- 
cribe a  tithe  of  her  thoughts  or  her  sufferings.  She  suffered  agonies  that 
would  fill  closely  printed  volumes,  bulky  with  a  thousand  pages,  in  that 
one  horrible  night.  She  underwent  volumes  of  anguish,  and  doubt,  and 
perplexity;  sometimes  repeating  the  same  chapters  of  her  torn 
over* and  over  again  ;  sometimes  hurrying  through  a  thousand  pages  of 
her  misery  without  one  pause,  without  one  moment  of  breathing  time. 
She  stood  bf  the  low  fender  in  her  boudoir,  watching  the  minute  hand 
of  the  clock,  and  waiting  till  it  should  be  time  for  her  to  leave  the  house 
in  safety. 

"  I  will  wait  ten  minute?,"  she  said,  "  not  a  moment  beyond,  before  I 
enter  upon  my  new  peril." 

She  listened  to  the  wild  roaring  of  the  March  wind,  which  seemed  to 
have  risen  with  the  stillness  and  darkness  of  the  night. 

The  hand  slowly  made  its  inevitable  way  to  the  figures  which  told 
that  the  ten  minutes  were  past.  It  was  exactly  a  quarter*  to  twelve 
when  my  lady  took  her  lamp  in  her  hand,  and  stole  softly  from  the 
room.  Her  footfall  was  as  light  as  that  of  some  graceful  wild  animal, 
and  there  wano  fear  of  that  airy  step  awakening  any  echo  upon  the 
carpeted  stone  corridors  and  staircase.  She  did  not  pause  until  she 
reached  the  vestibule  upon  the  ground  floor.  Several  door9  opened  out 
of  this  Vestibule,  which  was  octagon,  like  my  lady's  ante-chamber.  One 
of  these  doors  led  into  the  library,  and  it  was  this  door  which  Lady 
Audley  opened  softly  and  cautiously. 

To  have  attempted  to  ]c;:\<-  the  house  secretly  by  any  of  the  principal 
cutlets  would  have  been  simple  madness,  for  the  housekeeper  herself 
'superintended  the  barricading  of  the  great  doors,  back  and   front.     The 

ts  of  the  bolts,  and  J>ars,  and  chains,  jmd  bells  which  secured   I 
doors,  and  provided  for  the  s  Sir  Micha 

the  door  of  which  was  lined  with  sheet-iron,  were  known  only  to  the  ser- 
vants who  had  to  deal  with  them.  But  although  all  these  precautions 
were  taken  with  the  principal  end  l  len  shatter 

i  standby  iron  bar,  light  enough  to  be  i  .  ■   sid- 

ered  sufficient  safeguard  for  the  half-gln^s  door  which  opened  out  Ol 


214  LADY    AODLEY'S  SECRET 

breakfast  rood  into  the  gravelled  pathway  and  smooth  turf  in  thecourt- 
rd. 

It  was  by  this  outlet  that  Lady  Audley  meant  to  make  her^  escape. 
She  could  easily  remove  the  barand  unfasten  the  shutter,  and  she  might 
safely  venture  to  leave  the  window  ajar  while  she  was  absent.  There 
was  little  fear  of  Sir  Michael's  awakifig  for -some  time,  as  he  Was\a 
heavy  sleeper  in  the  earlier  pare  of  the  night,  and  had  slept  more  heavi- 
ly than  usual  since  his  illness-. 

Lady  Audley  crossed  the  library,  and  opened  the  door  of  the  break- 
fast-room which  communicated  with  it.  This  latter  apartment  was  one 
of  the  later  additions  to  the  Court.  It  was  a  simple,  cheerful  chamber, 
with  brightly-papered  walls  and  pretty  maple  firnkure,  and  was  more 
occupied  by  Alicia  than  any  one  else.  The  paraphernalia  of  that  young 
lady's  favorite  pursuits  were  scattered  about  the  room — drawing  mate- 
rials, unfinished  scraps  of  work,  tangled  skeins  of  silk,  and  all  the  other 
tokens  of  a  careless  damsel's  presence  ;  while  Miss  Audley's  picture — a 
pretty  crayon  sketch  of  a  rosy-faced  hoyden,  in  a  riding-habit  and  hat — 
hung  over  the  quaint  Wedgwood  ornaments  on  the  chimney-piece.  My 
lady  looked  upon  these  familiar  objects  with  scornful  hatred  flaming  in 
her  blue  eyes. 

"  How  glad  she  will  be  if  any  disgrace  befals  me  !"  she  thought ;  "  how 
she  will  rejoice  if  I  am  driven  out  of  this  house  !" 

Lady  Audley  set  the  lamp  upon  a  table  near  the  fireplace,  and  went 
to  the  window.  She  removed  the  iron-bar  and  the  light  wooden  shutter, 
and  then  opened  the  glass-door.  The  March  night  was  black  and  moon- 
less, and  a  gust  of  wind  blew  in  upon  her  as  she  opened  this  door,  and 
filled  the  room  with  its  chilly  breath,  extinguishing  the  lamp  upon  the 
table.  . 

"No  matter,"  my  lady  muttered,  "I  could  not  have  left  it  burning. 
I  shall  know  how  to  find  ray  way  through  the  house  when  I  come  back. 
I  have  left  all  the  doors  ajar." 

She  stepped  quickly  out  upon  the  smooth  gravel,  and  closed  the  glass- 
door  behind  her.  She  was  afraid  lest  that  treacherous  wh*J  should  blow- 
to  the  door  opening  into  the  library,  and.  thus  betray  her. 

She  was  in  the  quadrangle  now,  with  that  chill  wind  sweeping  against 
her,  and  swirling  her  silken  garin^ -:  rs  round  her  with  a  shrill,  rustling 
noise,  like  the  whistling 'of  a  sharp  b,  '3ze  against  the  sails  of  a  yacht. 
She  crossed  the  quadrangle  and  loyk.d  back — looked  back  for  a  moment, 
•'  at  the  firelight  gleaming  between  the  rosy-tinted  curtains  in  her  boudoir, 
and  the  dim  gleam  of  the  lamp  through  the  mullioned  windows  in  the 
room  where  Sir  Miqhael  Audley  lay  asleep. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  was  running  away,"  she  thought ;  "I  feel  as  if  I  was 
running  away  secretly  in  the  dead  of  the  night,  to  lose  myself  and  be 
forgotten.  Perhaps  it  would  be  wiser  in  me  to  run  away,  to  take  this 
man's,  warning,  and  escape  out  of  his  power  forever.  If  I  were  to  run 
away  and  disappear  as — as  George  Talboys  disappeared.-  But  where- 
could  I  go?  what  would  become  of  me'?  1  have  no  moneys  my  jewels 
are  not  worth  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds,  now  that  I   have  got  rid  of 


LA1>Y   AUDLEY'S  SECRET.  215 

"the  best  part  of  them.     What  could  T  do  ?     T  must  go  back  to  the  old 
lite,  the  bid,  hard,  cruel,  wretched  life — the  life  of  ,  and  hum) 

tioa,  and  Vexation,  and  Ishouldha\  I 

elf  out  in  that  long  struggle,  and  die — as  raj  mother  died,  perha 

My  i  "1  still  for  a   moment  on  the.  smooth  lawi  the 

quandxangle  and  the  archway,  wjth  her  head  droopiiig  upon  her   I 
and  her  hands  lock(  er,  debating  this  question  in  the  unnatural 

activity  of  her  mind.      Her  attitude  rv  he  state  i  f  that  mind' — it 

expressed  irresolution  and  perplexity.  But  presently  a  sudded  ohange 
came  over  her;  she  lifted  her  head — lifted  it  with  an  action  of  defiance 
and  determination. 

"No,  Mr.  Robert  Audiey,"  she  said  aloud,  in  a  low,  clear  voice;  "I 
will  not  go  hack — !  will  i  ack.  if  the  struggle  between  ns  is  to 
be  a  duel  to  the  death,  you  shall  not  find  me  drop  my  weapon." 

She  walked  with  a- firm  and  rapid  step  under  the  archway.  As  she 
passed  under  that  massive  arch,   it  see1)  ;f  she   disappeared 

some  black  gulf  that  had  waited  open  to  receive  her.     The  stupid 
Struck  twelve,  and  the  whole  archway  seemed  to  vibrate  under  its  heavy 
strokes,  as  Lady  Audiey  emerged  upon  the.  other  side  and  joined  Phoebe 
Marks,  who  had  waited  tor  her  late   mistress  very  near  the  gateway  of 
the  Court. 

"Now,  Phoebe,"  she  said,  "it  is  three  miles  from  hero  to  Mount  Stan- 
nine,  isn't  it'?" 

s,  my  lady." 

"Then  we  can  walk  the  distance  in  an  hour  and  a  half." 

Lady  Audiey  had  not  stopped  to  say  this;  she  was  walking  quickly' 
along  the  avenue  with  her  humble  companion  by  her  side.  Fragile  a;:d 
.  she  was  in  appearance,  she  was  a  very  good  walker.  She  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  taking  long  country  Gambles  with  Mr.  Daw 
children  in  her  old  days  of  dependence,  and  she  thought  very  little  of  a 
distance  of  three  miles. 

"Your  beautiful  husband  will  sit  up  for  you,  I  suppose.  Phoebe*?"  she 
said,  as  they  sMuck  acros  an  open  field  that  was  used  as  a  shortcut 
from  Audiey  Court  to  the  high  n 

"Oh,  yes,  my  lady  ;   !.  up.     He'll  be  drinking  with  the 

man,  I  dare  sa\ ."  •  * 

"The  man!*   What  man?" 

"The  man  th  ion,  rny  lady." 

"Ah,  to  be  sure,"  Said  Lady  Audiey,  indifferently. 

It  v.  ge  that   Phoebe's  domestic  troubles  should 

far  away  fi 
dinary  step  toward  ' ight  at  the  Castle  Inn. 

The  two  worn  field  and  turned  into  tfle  high  road.     The 

to  Mount  Stanning  was   all  uphill,  and  the  long  road  looked      I 
Ireary  in  the  dark    night  ;   l«u 
courage,  which  was  do  0        ituent  in  hei  selfish 

ut  of  her    •■ 
speak  age'  >>nipMnif>;    until  th  non    'he   ■■ 


216  LADY  AUDLBY'S  SECRET. 

Ing  lights  at  the  top  of  the  hill.  One  of  these  village  lights,  glaring  red- 
ly through  a  crimson  curtain,  marked  out  the  particular  window  behind 
which  it  was  likely  that  Luke  Marks  sat  nodding  drowsily  over  his 
liquor,  and  waiting  for  ihe  corning  of  his  wife. 

"  He  has  not  <jone  to  bed,  Phoebe,"  said  my  lady,  eagerly.  "  But 
there  is  no  other  light  burning  at  the  inn.  I  suppose  Mr.  Audlcy  is  in 
bed  and  asleep." 

"  Yes,  my  lady,  I  suppose  so," 

"You  are  sure  he  was  going  to  stay  at  the  Castle  to-night  1" 

"  Oh,  yes,  my  lady.  I  helped  the  girl  to  get  his  room  ready  before  I 
came  away." 

The  wind,  boisterous  everywhere,  was  even  shriller  and  more  pitiless 
in  the  neighborhood  of  that  bleak  hill-top  upon  which  the  Castle  Inn 
reared  its  rickety  walls.  The  cruel  blasts  raved  wildly  round  that  frail. 
erection.  They  disported  themselves  with  the  shattered  pigeon-house, 
the  broken  weathercock,  the  loose  tiles,  and  unshapely  chimneys;  they 
rattled  at  the  window-panes,  and  .whistled  in  the  crevices;  they,  mocked 
the  feeble  building  from  foundation  to  roof,  and  battered  and  banged  and 
tormented  it  in  their  fierce  gambols,  until  it  trembled  and  rocked  with 
the  force  of  their  rough  play. 

Mr.  Luke  Marks  had  not  troubled  himself  to  secure  the  door  of  his 
dwelling-house  before  sitting  down  to  boose  with  the  man  who  held  pro- 
visional possession  ot  his  goods  and  chattels.  The  landlord  of  the  Castle 
Inn  was  a  lazy,  sensual  brute,  who  had  no  thought  higher  than  a  selfish 
concern  for  his  own  enjoyments,  and  a  virulent  hatred  for  anybody  who 
stood  in  the  way  of  his  gratification. 

Phcebe  pushed  open  the  dodr  with  her  hand,  and  went  into  the  house, 
followed  by  my  lady.  The  gas  was  flaring  in  the  bar,  and  smoking  the 
low  plastered  ceiling.  The  door  of  the  bar-parlor  was  half  open,  and 
Lady  Audley  heard  the  brutal  laughter  of  Mr.  Marks  as  she  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  inn. 

"  I'll  tell  him  you're  here,  my  lady,"  whispered  Phcebe.  to  her  late 
mistress.  "I  know  he'll  be  tipsy.  You— you  won't  fe  offended,  my 
lady,  if  he  should  say  anything  rude.  You  know  it  wasn't  my  wish  that 
you  should  come." 

"Yes,  yes,"  answered  Lady  Audley,  impatiently.  "I  know  that. 
What  should  1  care  for  his  rudeness  ?     Let  him  say  what  he  likes." 

Phoebe  Marks  pushed  open  the  parlor  door,  leaving  my  lady  in  the 
bar  close  behind  her. 

Luke  sat  with  hi.-  clumsy  legs  stretched  out  upon  the  hearth.  He 
held  a  glass  of  gin-and-water  in*  one  hand  and  the  poker  in  the  other. 
He  had  just  thrust  the  poker  into  a  great  heap  of  black  coals'and  was 
shattering  them  to  make  a  blaze,  when  his  wife  appeared  upon  the  thres- 
hold of  the  room. 

He  snatched  the  poker  from  between  the  bars  and  made  a  half  drunk- 
en, half  threatening  motion  with  it  as  he  saw  her. 

"So  you've  condescended  ttfcome  home  at  last,  ma'am,"  he  .said  ;  ("| 
thought  you  was  never  coming  no  more." 


LADT  AUDLEVS  SECREl.  £17 

He  spoke  in  a  thick  and  drunken  voice,  and  was  by  no  means  too  in- 
telligible. He  was  steeped  to  the  very  lips  in  alcohol.  1 J  is  eyes  were 
dim  find  watery  ;  his  hands  were  unsteady  ;  his  voice  was  choked  and 
muffled  with  drink-.  A  brute,  even  when  most  sober;  a  brute,  even' 
when  on  his  best  behavior;  he  was  ten  times  more  brutal  in  his  drunk- 
enness, when  the  frw  restraints  which  held  his  ignorant,  every-day  bru- 
tality in  check  were  flung  aside  in  the  insolent  recklessness  of  intoxica- 
tion. 

••  I — I've  been  longer  than  I  intended  to  be,  Luke,"  Phoebe  answered, 
in  her  most  conciliatory  manner;  "but  I've  seen  my  lady,  and  shoe's 
been  very  land,  and — and  she'll  settle  this  business  for  us." 

•he's  been  very  kind,  has  she '?"  muttered  Mr.  Marks,  with  a  drunk- 
en laugh;  '-thank  her   for  nothing.     1  know  the  vally  of  her  kind) 
She'd  be  uncommon  kind,' I  dessay,  if  she  warn't  obligated  to  be  it." 

The  man  in  Ion,  who  had   fallen  into  a  maudlin  and  .-■  mi-un- 

conscious state  of  intoxication  upon  about  a  third  of  the  liquor  that  Mr. 
Marks  had  consumed,  only  stared  in  feeble  wonderment  at  his  host  and 
hostess.  He  sat  near  the  table.  Indeed,  he  had. hooked  himself  on  to 
it  with  his  elbows,  as  a  safeguard  against  sliding  under  it,  and  he  was 
making-imbecile  attempts  to  lighwhis  pipe  at  the  flame  of  a  guttering 
tallow  candle  near  him. 

"  My  lady  has  promised  to  settle  the  business  for  us,  Luke,"  Phoebe 
repeated,  without  noticing  Luke's  remarks.  She  knew  her  husband's 
dogged  nature  well  enough  by  this  time  to  know  that  it  v  than 

useless  to  try  to  stop  him  from  d'  ihg*or  saying  anything  which  his  own 
stubborn  will  led  him  to  do  or  say.     "  My  lady  will  she  said, 

"and  she's  come  down  here  to  s,e  about  it  tonight,"  she  added. 

The  poker  dropped  from  the  landlord's  hand,  and  fell  clattering  among 
the  cinders  on  the  hearth. 

"  My  Lady  Audlev  come  here  to-night !"  he  said. 

"Yes.,  Luke." 

My  lady  appeared  upon  the  threshold  of  the  door  as  Phoebe  spoke. 

u  Yes,  Luke  Marks,"  she  said,  "  I  have  coi  to  pay  this  man  and  to 
send  him  about  his  business." 

Lady  Audley  said  these  words  ;,i  a  strange  se.mi-mcchanical  manner; 
very  much  as  if  she  had  learned  the  sen  ten  >tf,  and  were  re 

ing  it  without  knowing  what,  she  said. 

Mr.  Marks  gave  I  t  his  empty  glass  down 

upon  the  table  with  an  il 

"You  might  have  given  the  money  to  Phoebe,"  he  Bald,  "as  well  as 
'"have  brought  it»yourself.     W  no  fine  ladies  up  hare,  pry  in' 

and  pokin' 

"  Luke,  Luke!"  i  fa    be,  '"when  my  lady  has  been  so 

kind !" 

I   b,  damn  her  kind™  I  Mr.  Marks;  "it  ain't  her  kin 

as  we  want,  gal,  it's  her  moi 

\  " 


218  LAI}?  a  U  DLEY'S  SECRET. 

•'■ 

Heaven  knows  how  much  more  Luke  Marks  might  have  said,  had  not 
my  lady  turned  upon  him  suddenly  and  awed  him  into  silence  by  the 
unearthly  her, beauty.     Her  hair  had  been   blown  away  froifl 

her  face,  and  being  of  a  ligfit,  feath  lity,  had  spread  itself. into  a 

tangled  mass  th'ai*surrounded  her  forehead  like  a  yellow  flame'.  There 
■was  another  flame  in  her  eyes — a  greenish  light,  such  as  might  flash  from 
the  changino;  Iniecl  orbs  of  an  angry  mermaid. 

"Stop."  she  cried.  L I  didn't  come  up  here  in  the  dead  of  the  night 
to  listen  to  your  insolence.     How  much  is  this  debt?" 

"  Nine  pound."      - 

Lady  Ar.dley  produced  her  purse — a  toy  <>f  ivory,  silver  and  turquoise 
— and  took  from  it  a  note  and  four  sovereigns.  .  She  laid  these  upon  the 
table. 

"Let  that  man  give  me  -a  receipt  for  the  money,"  she  said,  "before 
I  go."  •  " 

It  was  some  time,  before  the  man  could  be  roused  into  sufficient  con- 
sciousness for  the.  performance  of  this-  simple  duty,  and  it  was  only  by 
dipping  a  pen  into  the  ink  and  pushing  it  between  his  clumsy  lingers, 
that  he  was  at  last  made  to  comprehend  that  his  autograph  was  wanted 
at  the  bottom  of  the  receipt  which  had  been  made  out  by  Phcebe  Marks. 
Lady  Audley  took  the  document  as  soon  as  the  ink  was  dry,  and  turned 
to  leave  the  parlor.     Phoebe  followed  her.. 

"You  mustn't  go  home  alone,  my  lady,"  she  said.  "You'll  let  me 
go  with  you1?" 

"Yes,  yes;  you  shall  go  home  with  me." 

The  two  women  were  standing  near  the  door  of  the  inn  as  my  "lady 
said  this.  Phoebe  stared  wonderingly  at  her  patroness.  She  had  expec- 
ted that  Lady  Audley  would  be  in  a  hurry  to  return  home  after  settling 
this  business  which  she  had  capriciously  taken  upon  herself;  but  it  was 
not  so ;  my  lady  stood  leaning  against  the  inn  door  and  staring  into  va- 
cancy, and  again  Mrs.  Marks  began  to  fear  that  trouble  had  driven  her 
late  mistress  mad. 

A  little  dutch  clock  in  the  bar  struck  two  while  Lady  Audley  lingered 
in  this  irresolute,  absent  maimer. 

She  started  at  the  sound  and  began  to  tremble  violently. 

"I  think  I  am  going  to  faint,  Phoebe,"  she  said;  "where  can  I  get 
some  cold  water  ?"         '  . 

"The  pump  is  in  the  wash-house,  my  lady;  I'll  run  and  get  you  a  glass 
of  water." 

"  No,  no,  no/'  cried  my  lady,  clutching  Phoebe's  arm  as  she  wras  about 
to  run  away  upon  this  errand;  "I'll  get  it  myself.  I  must  dip  my  head 
in  a  basin  of  water  if  I  want  to  save  myself  from  fainting.  In  which 
room  does  Mr.  Audley  sleep  ?" 

There  was  something  so  irrelevant  in  this  question  that  Phoebe  Marks 
stared  aghast  at  her  mistress  before  t>he  answered  it. 

"It 'was  number  three  that  I  got  ready,  my  lady — the  front  room — 
the  room  next  to  ours,"  she  replied,  after  that  pause  of  astonishment. 

"  Give  me  a  candle,"  said  my  lady,   "  I'll  go  into  your  room,  and  get 


LADY   AUDI.'.  RET  219 

some  water  for  my  head.     Stay  where  you  are,"  eh 
tively,  as  Phoebe  Marks  was  about  to  show  the  jtay  where  you 

hat  that  brute  of  a  husband  of  you  bae!" 

She  snatched  the  caudle  which  Phoebe  had  from  the  girl's  b 

and  ran  up  the  rickety,  winding  staircase  wl  i<>fhc   narrow  corri- 

dor  upon  the  upper  floor.  Five  bedrooms  opened  out  of  this  low-cell- 
inged,  close-smelling  corridor  :  the  numbers  of  those  rooms  were  indica- 
ted by  sqi  tainted  upon  th<  panels  of  the  doors. 
Lad)  had  driven  up  to  Mount  S'tannrng  tojnsp  house 
when  she  bo  ugh  6  the  business  for  her  servants  bridegroom,  i 
knew  her  way  about  the  dilapidated  old  place;  she. knew  wh 
Phoebe's  bedroom,  but  she  Btop]  -  the  door  of  that  other  cham- 
ber which  had  been  prepi                  (r.  Robert  Au 

She  stopped  and  looked  at  the  number  on  the  door.  The  key  was  in 
the  lock,  and  her  hand  dropped  upon  it  as  if  unconsciously,  i  Wit  pre- 
sently she  suddenly  began  to  tremble  again,  as  she  had  trembled  a  few 
minutes  before  at  the  striking  of  the  clock.  She  stood  for  a  few  mo- 
ments trembling  thus,  with  her  hand  still  upon  iheu  a  horrible 
expression  came  over  her  face,  and  she  turned  the  key  in  the  look  ;  she 
turned  it  twice,  double  lockiug  the  door. 

There  was  no  sound  from  within  ;  the  occupant  of  the  chamber  made 
no  sign  of  having  heard  that  ominous  creaking  of  the.  rusty  key  in  the 
rusty  look. 

Lady  Audley  hurried  into  the  next  room.  She  set  the  candle  on  the 
dressing-table,  flung  off  her  bonnet  and  slung  it  loosely  across  her  arm  ; 
then  she  went  to  the  washhand-stand  and  filled  the  basin  with  water. 
"She  plunged  her  golden  hair  into  this  water,  and  then  stood  for  a  few 
moments  in  the  centre  of  the  room  looking  about  her,  with  a  white,  earn- 
est face,  and  an  eager  gaze  that' seemed. to  take  in  every  object  in  the 
poorly  furnished  chamber.  Phoebe's  bedroom  was  .certainly  ver\  shab- 
bily furnished  ;  she  had  been  compelled  to  select, all  the  most  decent 
things  for  those  best  bedrooms  -which  were  set  apart  for  any  ch 

eller   who  might  stop  for  a  night's  lodging  at  the  Castle  Inn  ;  but 
Phoebe  Marks  had  done  her  best   to.  atone   for   the   luck  of  substantial 
furniture  in  her  apartment  by  a  superabundance  of  drapery.     Crisp 
tains  of  cheap  chintz  hung 'from   the   tent-bedstead  j  festooned  drap 
of  the  same  material  shrouded  the  narrow  window,  shutting  out. the.  light 
of  day,  and  affording  a  pleasant  harbor  for  I  itorj 

bands  of  spiders.     Even  the  looking-glass,  a  miserably  cheap  construo- 
ti<  n  which  distorted  ever]  r  had  the  I  1  to  look 

into  it,  stood  upon  ft  drap<  ried  altar  of  starched  muslin  and   pink  glazed 
calico,  and  was  adorned  with  frills  of  lace  and  knitted  w< 

My  lady  smiled  as  she  looked  at:°  the  festoons  and  furbelows  which 
met  her  eyes   upon  every   side.     She  had  reason,  pei 
naerab  costly  ele  ..  own  aparl  but  there  was 

something  in  that  sai  ■  dug 

than  any  natural  contempt  for  Phoebe's  attempts  al  Lion.     She 

went  to  the  dressing  table  andtsmoothed  her  wet  hair  before  the  looking- 


220  LADY  AflJJLEY/S  SECRET. 

glass,  and  theu  put  on  her  bonnet.  She  was  obliged  to  place  the  flaming 
tallow  candle  very  close  to  the  lace  furbelows  about  the  glass;  so  close 
that  the  starched  muslin  seemed  to  draw  the  flame  toward  it  by  some 
power  of  attraction  in  its  fragile  tissue. 

Phoebe  waited#m.\?ously  by  the  inndoor  for  my  lady's  coming.  She 
watched  the  minute  hand  of  the  little  Dutch  clock,  wondering  at  the 
slowness  of  its  progress.  It  was  only  ten  minutes  past  two  when  Lady 
Audley  came  downstairs,  with  her  bonnet  on  and  her  hair  still  wet,  but 
without  the  candle. 

Phoebe  was  immediately  anxious  aboil t  this  missing  candle. 
,  "The  light,  my  lady,"  she  said;  "you  have  left  it  up-stairs!" 

"The   wind    blew  it  out  as  I  was  leaving  your  room,"  Lady  Audley  : 
answered,  quietly.     "  I  left  it  there." 

"In  my  room, 'my lady  *" 

"Yes." 

"And  it  was  quite^out1?" 

"Yes,  I  tell  y%ou ;  Why  do.  you  worry  me  about  your  candle1?  It  is 
past  two,  o'clock.     Gome." 

She  took  the  girl's  arm,  and  half-led,  half-dragged  her  from  the  house. 
The  convulsive  pressure  of  her  slight  hand  held  her  companion  as  firmly 
as  an  iron  vice  could  have  held  her.  The  fierce  March  wind  banged-to 
the  door  of  the  house,  and  left  the  two  women  standing  outside  it.  The 
long,  black  road  lay  bleak  and\  desolate  before  them,  dimly  visible  be- 
tween straight  lines  of  leafless  hedges. 

A  walk  of  three  miles'  length  upon  a  .lonely  country  road,  between 
the  hours  of  two  and  four  on  a  cold  winter's  morning,  is  scarcely  a  pleas- 
•ant  task  for  a  delicate  woman — a  woman  whose  inclinations  lean  toward 
ease  and  luxury.  But  my  lady  hurried  along  the  hard,  dry  highway, 
dragging  her  companion  with  her  as  if  she  had  been  impelled  by  some 
horrible  demoniac  force  which  knew  no  abatement.  With  the  black 
night  above  them — with  the  fierce  wind  howling  round  them,  sweeping 
across  a  broad  expanse . of  hidden  country,  blowing  as  if  it  had  risen  sim- 
ultaneously from  every  point  of  the  compass,  and  making  those  wretch- 
ed wanderers  the  focus  of  its  ferocity — the  two  women  walked  through 
the  darkness  down  the  hill  upon  which  Mount  Scanning  stood,  along  a 
mile  and  a-half  of  flat  road,  and  then  up  another  hill,  on  the  western  side 
of  which  Audley  Court11  l,ay  in  that  sheltered  valley,  which  seemed  to 
shut  in  the  old  house  from  all  the  clamor  and  hubbub  of  the  every-day 
world. 

My  lady  stopped  upon  the  summit  of  this  hill  to  draw  breath  and  to 
■clasp  ber  hands  upon  her  heart,  in  the  vain  hope  that  she  might  still  its 
•cruel  beating.  They  were  now  within  three-quarters  of  a  mile  of  the 
Court,  and  they  had  been  walking  for  nearly  an  hour  since  they  had  left 
-the  Castle  Inn. 

Lady  Audley  stopped  to  rest  with  her  face  still  turned  toward  the 
place  of  her  destination.  Phoebe  Marks,  stopping  also,  and  very  glad  of 
a  moment's  pause  in  that  harried  journey,  looked  back  into  the  far  dark- 
ness beneath  which^ay  that  dreary  shelter  that  had  given  her  so  much 


LAJDY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET  221 

uneasiness.     As  she  did  so,  she  uttered  a  shrill  cry  of  horror,  and  clutch- 
ed  wildly  at  her  companion's  cloak. 

The  night  sky  was  no  longer  all  dark.  The  thick  blackness  was  broken 
by  one  patch  of  lurid  light. 

"My  lady!  my  lady  !"  cried  Phoebe,  pointing  to"  this  lurid  patch  ; 
"  do  you  see  1" 

"  Yes,  child,  I  see,"  answered  Lady  Audley,  trying  to  shake  the  cling- 
ing bands  from  her  garments.     "  What  is  the  mat 

"  It  is  a  fire  ! — a  fire,  my  lady  ?" 

"Yes,  I'm  afraid  it  is  a  fire.  At  Brentwood  most  likely,  Let  me 
go,  "Phoebe ;  it  is  nothing  to  us." 

""Yes.  yes,  my  lady  ;  it's  nearer  than  Brentwood— much  nearer ;  it's 
at  Mount  St  aiming."    ■ 

Lady  Audley. did  not  answer.  She  was  trembling  again,  with  the 
cold  perhaps,  for  the  wind  had  torn  her  heavy  cloak  away  from  her 
shoulders,  and  had  left  her  slender  figure  exposed  to  the  blast. 

"  It's  at  Mount  Stanning,  my  lady  !"  cried  Phoebe  Mark?.  "  It's  the 
Castle  that's  on  fire— I  know  it  is,  1  know  it  is  !  I  thought  of  fire  to- 
night, and  I  was  fidgety  and  uneasy,  for  I  knew  this  would  happen  some 
day.  I  wouldn't  mind  if  it  was  only  the  wretched  place,  but  thereMl  be 
life  lost,  there'll  be  life  lost!"  sobbed  the  girl,  distractedly.  "There's 
Luke,  too  tipsy  to  help  himself,  uulass  others  help  him ;  there's  Mr. 
Audley  asleep " 

Phoebe  Marks  stopped  suddenly  at  the  mention  of  Robert's  name,  and 
fell  upon  her  knees,  clasping  her  uplifted  hands,  and  appealing  wildly  to 
Lady  Audley. 

"  Oh,  my  God  !"  she  cried.  "  Say  it's  not  true,  my  lady,  eay  it  isn't 
true  !     It's  too  horrible,  it's  too  horrible,  it's  too  horrible  !" 

"  What's  too  horrible  ?" 

"The  thought  that's  in  my  mind  ;  the  dreadful  thought  that's  in  my 
mind." 

"What  do  you  mean,  girl?"  cried  my  lady  fiercely. 

"  Oh,  God  forgive  me  if  I'm  wrung  !"  the  kneeling  woman  gasped,  in 
detached  sento  noes,  "  and  God  grant,  I  may  be.  Why  did  you  go  up  to 
the  Castle'to-night,  my  lady  ?  Why  were  you  so  set  on  gdfng  against 
all  I  could  say — you  who  are  so  bitter  against  Mr.  Audley  and  against 
Luke,  and  who  knew  they  were  both  under  that  roof?  Oh,  tell  me  that 
I  do  you  a  cruel  wrong,  my  lady  ;  tell  me  so — tell  me  !  for  as  there  is  a 
heaven  above  me  I  think  that  you  went  to  that  place  to-night  on  purpose 
to  set  fire  to  it.  Tell  me  that  I'm  wrong,  my  lady ;  tell  me.  that  I'm  do- 
ing you  a  wieked  wrong  !" 

"  I  will  tell  you  nothing,  except  that  you  are  a  mad  woman,*'  answer- 
ed Lady  Audley,  in  a  cold,  hard  voice.  "Get  up;  fool,  idiot,  coward  ! 
Is  your  husband  such  a  precious  bargain  that  you  should  be  groveling 
there*,  lamenting  and  groaning  for  him?  What  is  Robert  Audley  to 
you,  that  you  behave  like  a  maniac,  because  you  think  he  is  in  danger? 
How  do  you  know  that  the  fire  is  at  Mount  Stanning?  You  see  a 
patch  in  the  sky,  and  you  cry  out  directly  that  your  own  paltry  hovel  i9 

I 


222  LADY  AUDLET*  SECRET. 

in  flames,  a?  if  there  was  no  place  hi  the  world  that'  could  burn  except 
(ha  .  The'fire  may  be  at  Brentwood,  or  further  away — at  Romford,  or 
still  further  away,  on  the  eastern  side  of  London  perhaps.  Get  up,  mad 
woman,  and  go  back  and  look  after  your  goods  and  chattels  and  your 
husband  and  your  lodger.     Gel  up  and  go  ;  I  don't  want  you." 

"Qh!  my  lady,  my  lady,  forgive  me,"  sobbed  Phcebe ;  "  there's 
nothing  you  can  say  to  mc  that's  hard  enough  for  having  done  you  such 
a  wrong,  even  in  my  thoughts.  I  don't  mind  your  cruel  words — I  don't 
mind  anything  if  I'm  wrong." 

"  Go  back  and  see  for  yourself,"  answered  Lady  Audley,  sternly.-  ';I 
tell  you  again,  I  don't  want  you." 

She  walked  away  in  the  darkness,  leaving  Phoebe  Marks  still  kneel- 
ing upon  the  hard  road,  where  she  had  cast  herself  in  that  agony  of  sup- 
plication. Sir  Michael's  wife  walked  toward  the  house  in  which  her  hus- 
band slept,  with  the  red  blaze  lighting  up  the  skies  behind  her,  and  with 
nothing  but  the  blackness  of  the  night  before. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

r 

THE  BEARER  OF  THE  TJ DINGS. 

It  was  very  lato  the  next  morning  when  Lady  Audley  emerged  from 
her  dressing  room,  exquisitely  dressed  in  a  morning  costume  of  delicate 
muslin,  elaborate  laces,  and  embroideries;  but  with  a  very  paleface, 
and  with  half-circles  of  purple  shadow  under  her  eyes.  She  accounted 
for  this  pale  face  and  these  hollow  eyes  by  declaring  that  she  had  sat  up 
reading  until  a  very  late  hour  on  the  pre  /ious  night. 

Sir  Michael  and  his  young  wife  breakfasted  in  the  library  at  a  com- 
fortable round  table,  wheeled  close  to  the  blazing  fire ;  and  Alicia  was 
compelled  to  share  this  meal  with  her  stepmother,  however  she  might 
avoid  that  lady  in  the  long  interval  between  breakfast  and  dinner. 

The  March  morning  was  Weak  and  dull,  and  a  drizzling  rain  fell  inces- 
santly, obscuring  the  landscape  and  blotting  out  the  distance.  There 
were  very  few  letters  by  the  morning's  post ;  the  daily  newspapers  did 
not  arrive  until  noon ;  and  such  aids  to  conversation  being  missing,  there 
was  very  little  talk  at  the  breakfast-table.  '  . 

Alicia  looked  out  at  the  drizzling  rain  drifting  against  the  broad  win- 
dowpanes. 

"  No  riding  to-day,"  she  said ;  "  and  no  chance  of  any  callers  to  en- 
liven us,  unless  that  ridiculous  Bob  comes  crawling  through  the  wet  from 
Mount  Stanning." 

Have  you  ever  heard  anybody,  whom  you  knew  to  be  dead,  alluded 


LA4}?   AUDLEYS  SECABT.  223 

to  in  a  light,  easy-going  manner  by  another  person  who  did  not  know  of 
ath — alluded  to  as  doing  that  or  this,  as  perfo  ivral 

•ration — when  yqu  know  has  vanishi  from 

the  (ace  of  this  earth,  and  separated  himself  forever  from  all  living  i 
tures  and  their  commonplace  pursuits  in  the  awful  solemnity  of  di 
Such  a  chance  allu  jiljficant  though  it  may  be,  is  apl 

strange  thrill  of  .pain  through  the  mind.     The   ignorant  remark  jara  dis- 
cordantly upon   the  hyper-sensitive .brain; 

crated  by  that  unwitting  disrespect.     Heaven  knows  what  bidden  i< 
my  lady  may  have  had  for  experiencing  some   such  revulsion  offi 
<,n  the  sudden  mention  of  Mr.  Audley'si  ame,  but  her  pale  face  blani 
to  a  sickly  white  a  jm  >ke  of  her  cousin; 

"Yes,  he  wil  in  the  wet.,  perhaps,"  the  young  lady 

continued>  "with  his  hat  sleek   and   shining  as  ii'  had  been  brushed  with 
a  pat  of  fresh  buttt  z  out  of  hi; 

im  look  like  an  awkward   gi  aie  just   l<         b-bi 
He  will  come  down  here,  and    print   in  -  of  his  muddy  boats  all 

over  the  carpet,  and  he'll  sit  on  yuUr  Gobelin  tapestry,  n  in  his 

overcoat ;  and  he'll  abuse  you  if  you  remonstrate,  and  will 
e  have  chairs  that  are  not  to  be  sat  upon,  and  why  you  don't  live 

in  Fig-tree  Court,  and " 

Sir  Michael  Audley  watched  his  daughter  with  a  thoughtful  counten- 
ance  as  she  talked  of  her  cousin.  She  very  often  talked  of  him,  ridicul- 
ing him  and  inveighing  against  him  in  no  very  measured  terms.  But 
perhaps  the  baronet  ? bought  of  a  certain  Signora'Beatrice  who  very 
cruelly  entreated  a  gentleman  called  Benedick,  but  who  was,  it  may  be, 
heartily  in  love  with  him  at  the  same  time. 

.   "What  do  Major   Melville  told  me  when  he  called  here 

yesterday,  Alicia?"  Sir.Michael  a>!  ntly. 

"I   haven't  the   remol  ."replied    Alicia,   rather  disdainfully. 

"  Perhaps  he  told  you  that  we  should  have  another  war  before  long, 
Ged,  sir;  or  perhaps  he  told   you   that  we  shoul  netf  minis 

by  Ged,  sir,  for  thai  lows  are  getting  themselves  into 

sir;  or  that  those  other  fello  cutting  down 

that,  and  alterit  ..  her  in  the  army,  until,  by  Ged,  sir,  we  shall  ! 

no  army  at  all,  by-and-b) — nothing  but  a   pack  of  b  med 

up  to  the  eyes  with  a  lot  of  s 

ed  in  shell  jackets  at  they're  fighting  in  Oudh 

in  calico  helmets  at  this  very  day,  sir." 

ui'iv  an  iropertii  ent  minx,  miss,"  answered  the  baronet.     "  Mi 
Melville  I  "Id  me  I  j  de- 

bafe  forsaken  I 
in  Hertfordshire,  and  his  hunting  I  has  gom  I  nent 

for  a  t\\ eli i  month's  t<  >ur." 

Audley  flushed   up  suddenly  at  er, 

quickly. 
M  He   1) ,  ntinent,  has 

told  mo.  that  lie  mean'  to  do  so — if— if  he  did'  ♦    ,\q4Z 


224  LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET  . 

his  own  way.  Poor  fellow !  he's  a  dear,  good-hearted,  stupid  creature, 
and  twenty  times  better  than  that  peripatetic,  patent  refrigerator,  Mr. 
Robert  Audiey." 

"  I  wish,  Alicia,  you  were  not  so  fond  of  ridiculing  Bob,"  Sir  Michael 
said,  gravely.  "Bob  is  a  very  good  fellow,  and  I'm  as  fond  of  him  as 
if  he'd  been  ray  own  son;  and — and — I've  been  very  uncomfortable 
about  him  lately.  He  has  changed'  very  much  within  the.  last  few  days, 
and  he  has  taken  all  sorts  of  absurd  ideas  into  his  head,  and  my  lady  has 
alarmed  me  about  him.     She  thinks " 

Lady  Audiey  interrupted  her  husband  with  a  grave  shake  of  her  head. 

"•"It  is  better  not  to  say  too  much  about  it  yet  awhile,"  she  said ; 
"Alicia  knows  what  I  think." 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Miss  Audiey,  "my  lady  thinks4that  Bob  is  going  mad, 
but  I  know  better  than  that.  He's  not  at  all  the  sort  of  person  to  go 
mad.  How  should  such  a  sluggish  ditchpond  of  an  intellect  ats  his  ever 
work  itself  into  a  tempest  1  He  may  move  about  for  the  rest  of  his  life, 
perhaps,  in  a  tranquil  state  of  semi-idiotcy,  imperfectly  comprehending 
who  he  is,  and  where  he's  going,  and  what  he's- doing  ;  but  he'll  never 
go  mad." 

Sir  Michael  did  not  reply  to  this.  He  had  been  very  much  disturbed 
by  his  conversation  with  my  lady  on  the  previous  evening,  and  had 
silently  debated  the  painful  question  in  his  mind  ever  since. 

His  wife — the  woman  he  best  loved  and  most  believed , in — had  told 
him,  withall  appearance  of  regret  and  agitation,  her  conviction  of  his 
nephew's  insanity.  He  tried  in  vain  to  arrive  at  the  conclusion  he  wished 
most  ardently  to  attain ;  he  tried  in  vain  to  think  that  my  lady  was 
misled  by  her  own  fancies,  and  had  no  foundation  for  what  she  said. 
But  then,  again,  it  suddenly  flashed  upon  him,  to  think  this  was  to  arrive 
at  a  worse  conclusion  •  it  was  to  transfer  the  horrible  suspicion  from  his 
nephew  to  his  wife.  She  appeared  to  be  possessed  with  an  actual  con- 
viction of  Robert's  insanity.  To  imagine  her  wrong  was  to  imagine 
some  weakness  in  her  own  mind.  The  longer  he  thought  of  the  subject 
the  more  it  harassed  and  perplexed  him.  It  was  most  certain  that  the 
young  man  had  always  been  eccentric.  He  was  sensible,  he  was  tolerably 
clever,  he  was  honorable  and  gentlemanlike  in  feeling,  though  perhaps  a 
little  careless  in  the  performance  of  certain  minor  social  duties ;  but 
there  were  some  slight  differences,  not  easily  to  be  defined,  that  separat- 
ed him  from  other  men  of  his  age  and  position.  Then,  again,  it  was 
equally  true  that  he  had  very  much  changed  within  the  period  that  had 
succeeded  the  disappearance  of  George  Talboys.  He  had  grt)wn  moody 
and  thoughtful,  melancholy  and  absent-minded.  He  had  held  himself 
aloof  from  society  ;  had  sat  for  hours  without  speaking  ;  had  talked  at 
other  times  by  fits  and  starts;  and  had  excited  himself  unusually  in  the 
discussion  of  subjects  which  apparently  lay  far  out  of  the  region  of  his 
own  life  and  interests.  Then  there  was  even  another  point  which  seem- 
ed to  strengthen  my  lady's  case  against  this  unhappy  young  man.  He 
had  been  brought  up  in  the  frequent  society  of  his  cousin,  Alicia— his 
pretty,  genial  cousin — to  whom  interest,  and  one  would  have  thought 


LADY  DUDLEY'S  SECRET  225 

affection,  naturally  ]    intcd  as  his  most  fitting  bride.     More 'than  this, 

jitl  had  shown  him,  in  the  innocent  guilelessness  of  a  transparent 

re,  that  on  her  side,  at  least,  affection  was  not  wanting ;  and  yet  in 

^spito  of  all  this,  he  had  held  himself  aloof,  and  had  allowed  other  men 

to  propose  for  her  hand,  and  to  be  rejected  by  her,  and  had  still  made 

no  sign. 

Now  love  is  so  very  subtle  an  essence,  such  an  indefinable  metaphysi- 
cal marvel,  that  its  due  force,  though  very  cruelly  felt  by  the  sufferer 
himself,  elearly   understood   by  those  who  look  on  at  h 

ments  and  wonder  why  he  takes  the  common  fever  so  badJy.  Sir  Mich- 
ael argued  thai  -  Alicia  was  a  pretty  girl  and  an  amiable  girl  it 
was  therefore  i  unnatural  in  Robert  Audley  not  to  have 
duly  fallen  in  love  with  her.  Tim-baronet,  who,  close  upon  his  sixtieth 
birthday,  had  for  the  first  time  encountered  that  one  woman  who  out  of 
ail  i  he  women  in  the  world  had  power  to  quicken  the  pulses  of  his  heart, 
wondered  why  Robert  failed  to  take  ti:  •  fever  from  the  first  breath  of 
contagion  that  blew  toward  him.  He  forgot  that  there  are  men  who  go 
their  ways  unscathed  amidst  legions  of  lovely  and  generous  women,  to 
succumb  at  last  before' some  harsh- featured  virago,  who  knows  the  secret 
of  that  onry  philter  which  can  intoxicate  and  bewitch  him.  He  forgot  that 
t^hcre  are  certain  Jacks  who  go  through  life  without  meeting  the  Jill  ap- 
pointed for  them  by  Nemesis,  and  die  old  bachelors  perhaps,  with  poor 
Jill  pjning  an  old  maid  upon  the  other  side  of  the  party-wall.  He  for- 
got that  love,  which  is  a  madness,  and  a  scourge,  and  a  fever,  and  a  de- 
lusion, and  a  snare,  is  also  a  mystery,  and  very  imperfectly  understood 
by  every  one  except  the  individual  sufferer  who  writhes  under  its  tor- 
tures. Jones,  who  is  wildly  enamored-  of  Miss  Brown,  and  who  lies 
aWakc,  at  night  until  he  loathes  his  comfortable  pillow  and  tumbles  his 
sheets  into  two  twisted  rags  of  linen  in  his  agonies,  as  if  he  were  a  prison- 
er and  wanted  to  wdnd  them  into  impromptu  ropes;  this  same  Jones, 
who  thinks  Russell  Square  a  magic  place  because  his  divinity  inhabits 
it,  who  thinks  the  trees  in  that  enclosure  and  the  sky  above  it  greener 
an>]  bluer  than  any  other  trees  or  sky,  and  who  feels  a  pang,  yes,  an  ac- 
tual pang,  of  mingled  hope,  and  joy,  and  expectation,  and  terror  when 
he  emerges  from  Guilford  Street,  descending  from  the  heights  of  Isling- 
ton, into  those  sacred  precincts ;  this  very  Jones  is  hard  and  callow 
ward  the  torments  of  Smith,  who  adores  Miss  Robinson,  and  cannot  im-* 
agine  what  the  infatuated  fellow  can  see  in  the.gtrl.  So  it  was  with  Sir 
Michael  Audley.     ITe  looked  at  his  nephew  as  a  sample  of  a  very  large 

of  young  men,  and  Iris  daughter  as  a  sample  of  an  equally 
class  of  feminine  goods,  and  could  not  sec  why  the  two  -  hould 

not  make  a  very  respectable  match.  II  ignored  all  those  infinitesimal 
differences  in  nature  which  make  the  wholesome  food  of  one  man  the 
deadly  poison  of  another.     How  difficult  it  i    to  beli  I         that 

a  man  doesn't  like  auueh  and  such  a  favoiite  dish.  If,  at  a  dinnerparty, 
a  meek  lookiiv  nul  cucumber,  oj 

■  bruary,  im  down  a  relation  whose  warn 

him  off  th  '• 

16 


226  J-a£y  AirjDixra  aucajsr 

didn't  like  green  fat,  he  would  be  looked  upon  as  a  social  martyr,  a 
Marcus  Curtiusof  the  dinuer-tnble,  who  immolated  himself  for  the  bene- 
fit of  his  kind.  His  fellow  aldermen  would  believe  in  any  thing  rather 
than  an  heretical  distaste  for  the  city  ambrosia  of  the  soup  tureen.  ■  But 
there  are  people  who  dislike  salmon,  and  white-bait,  and  spring  ducklings, ' 
and  all  manner  of  old-established  delicacies,,  and  there  are  other  people 
who  affect  eccentric  and  despicable  dishes  generally  stigmatized  as  nasty.  ' 

Alas,  my  pretty  Alicia,  your  cousin  did  not  love  you  ?  He. admired 
your  rosy  English  face,  and  had  a  tender  affection  for  you  which  might 
perhaps  have  .expanded  by-and-by  into  something  warm  enough  for  mat- 
rimony, that  every-day  jog-trot  species  of  union  which  demands  no  very 
passionate  devotion,  but  for  a  sudden  check'  which  it  had  received  in 
Dorsetshire.  Yes,  Robert  Audley's  growing  affection  for  his  cousin,  a 
plant  of  very  slow  growth,  I  am  fain  to  confess,  had  been  suddenly 
dwarfed  and  stunted  upon  that  bitter  February  day  on  which  ha  had 
stood  beneath  the  pine-trees  talking  to  Clara  Talboys.  Since  that  day  ' 
the  young  man  had  experienced  an  unpleasant  sensation  in  thinking  of 
poor  Alicia.  He  looked  at  her  as  being  in  some  vague  manner  an  en- 
cumbrance upon  the  freedom  of  his  thoughts ;  he  had  a  haunting  fear 
that  he  was  in  some  tacit  way  pledged  to  her;  that  she  had  a  species  of 
•claim  upon  him,  which  forbade  to  him  the  right  of  even  thinking  of  an- 
other woman.  I  believe  it  was  the  image  of  Miss  Audley  presented  to 
him  in  this  light  that  goaded  the  young  barrister  into  those  ^outbursts  of 
splenetic  rage  against  the  female  sex  which-he  was  liable  to  at  certain 
times.  He  was  strictly  honorable,  so  honorable  that  he  Vould  rather 
have  immolated  himself  upon  the  altar  of  truth  and  Alicia  than  have 
done  her  the  remotest  wrong,  though  by  so  doing  he  might  have  secured 
his  own  comfort  and  happiness. 

"  If  the  poor  little  girl  loves  me,"  he  thought,  "  and  if  she  thinks  that  I 
love  her,  and  has  been  led  to  think  so  by  any  word  or  act  of  mine,  I'm 
in  duty  bound  to  let  her  think  so  to  the  end  of  time,  and  to  fulfil  any 
tacit  promise  which  I  may  have  unconsciously  made.  I  thought  once — - 
I  meant  once  to — to  make  her  an  offer  by-and-by  when  t*his  horrible 
mystery  about  George  Talboys  should  have  been  cleared  up -and  every- 
thing peacefully  settled — but/wow " 

His  thoughts  would  ordinarily  wander  away  at  this  point  of  his  re- 
flections, carrying  him  where  he  never  had  intended  to  go;  carrying  him 
back  under  the  pine-trees  in  Dorsetshire,  and  setting, him  once  more  face 
to  face  with  the  sister  of  his  missing  friend,  and  it  was  generally  a  very 
laborious  journey  by  which  he.  travelled  back  to  the  point  from  which  he 
hid  strayed.  It  was  so  difficult  for  him  to  tear  himself  away  from  the 
stunted  turf  and  the  pine-trees. 

"  Poor  little  girl !"  he  would  think  on  coming  back  to  Alicia.  "  How 
good  it  is  of  her  to  love  me,  and  how  grateful  I  ought  to  be  for  her  ten- 
derness. How  many  fellows  would  think  such  a  generous,  loving  heart 
the  highest  boon  that  earth  could  give  them.  There's  Sir  Harry  Towers 
stricken  with  despair  at  his  rejection.  He  would  give  me  half  his  estate, 
all  his  estate,  tvric*  hrs  estate,  if  he  had  it,  to  be  in  the  shoes  which  I  am 


L.UJY   AUDLEY'S  StiCltlfT  227 

so  anxious  to  shake  off  my  ungrateful  feet.  Why  don't  I  love  her? 
why  is  it  that  although  I  know  her  to  he  pretty,  and  pure,  and  good, 
and  truthful,  1  don't  love  her?  Her  image  never  haunts  me,  except  re- 
proachfully. I  never  sec  her  in  my  dreams.  1  never  wake  up  suddenly 
in  the  '  the  night  with  hej  n  me  and  her  warm 

.  breath  upon -my  cheek,  or  with,  the  lingers  of  her   soft*,  hand  clinging  to 
mine.     No,  I'm  not  in  love  with  her,  1  can't  fall  in  love  with  her." 

He  raged  and  rebelled  against  his  ingratitude.  lie  tried  to  argue 
himself  into  a  ]  '  ■  attachment  for  his  cousin,  but  he  failed  igno-' 

miniously,  and  the  more-he  tried  to  think  of  Alicia  the  more  he  thought 
ys.     I  amsn&aking  now  of  his  feelings  in  the  period  that 
clap  .en  his  return   from  Dorsetshire  and  his  visit  to  Gi 

Heath. 

Sir  Michael  sat  by  the  library  f  Ji^akfa'st  upon  this  wretched 

rainy  morning,  writing  letters  and  reading  the  newspapers.     Alicia  shut' 
herself  in'her  own  apartment  to  read  the  third  volume  of  a  novel.     Lady 
Audley  locked  the  door  of  the  octagon  antechamber,  and  roamed  U] 
down  the  suit  of  rooms  from   the   bedroom   to  the  boudoir  all  through 
that  weary  morning. 

She  had  locked  the  door  to  guard  against  the  chance  of  any  one  com- 
ing in  suddenly  and  observing  her  before  she  was  aware — before  she  had 
had  sufficient  warning  to  enable  her  to  face  their  scrutiny.  Her  pal- 
seemed  to  grow  paler  as  the  morning  advanced.  A  tiny  medicine  chest 
was  open  upon  the  dressing-table,  and  little  stoppered  bottles  of  red 
lavender,  sal-volatile,  chloroform,  chlorodyne,  and  ether  were  scattered 
about.  Once  my  lady  paused  before  this  medicine  chest,  and  too 
the  remaining  bottles,  half  absently  perhaps,  until  she  came  to  one  which 
was  filled  with  a  thick  dark  liquid,  and  labelled,  "opium — poison  !" 

She  trifled  a  long  time  with  this  last  bottle ;  holding  it  up  to  the 
light,  and  even  removing  the  stopper  and  smelling  the  sickly  liquid. 
But  she  put  it  from  her  suddenly  with  a  shudder. 

"  If  I  could  !"  she  muttered,  "  if  1  could  only  do  it?  And  yet  why 
should  I  noiv?"  ' 

,  She  clenched  her  small  hands  as  she  Uttered  the  last  words,  and  walked 
to  the  window  of  the  dressing-room,  which  looked  straight  toward  that 
ivied  archway  under  which  any  one  must  come  who  came  from  Mount 
Stanning  to  the  Court. 

There  were  smaller  gates  in  the  gardens  which  led  into  the  meadows 
behind  the  Court,  hut  there  was  no  other  way  of  coming  from  Mount 
Stanning  or  Brentwood  than  by  the  principal  entrance. 

The  solitary  hand  of  the  clock  over  the  archway  was  midway  between 
one  and  two  when  my  lady  looked  at  it. 

•  How  slow  the  time  is,"  she  said*  wearily  ;  "-how  slow,  how  slow  • 
Shall  I  grow  old  like  this,  I  wonder,  with  every  minute  of  my  life  Ream- 
ing like  an  hour  ?"  / 

She  stoo  I  for  a  f<wv  minutes  watching  the  archway,  but  no  one  pa 
under  it  'while   she  looked,  and  she  turned  impatiently  away  from  the 
\  indow  to  resume  her  weary  wandering  about  tho  rooms. 


228  kADY  AUDLEY'S  SEGRJ 

Whatever  fire  that  had  been,  which  had  reflected  itself  vividly  in 
black  sky,  no  tidings  of  it  had  as 'yet  come  to  Audley  Court.  The  day 
was  miserably  wet  and  windy,  altogether  the  very  last  day  upon  which 
even  the  most  confirmed  idler  and  gossip  would  care  to  venture  out. 
It  was  not  a  market-day,  and  there  were  therefore  very  few  passengers 
upon  the  road  between  Brentwood  and  Chelmsford,  so  that  as  yet  no' 
news  of  the  fire,  which  had  occurred  in  the  dead  of  the  wintry  night  ha 
reached  the  village  of  Audley,  or  travelled  from  the  village  to  the  Court. 

The  girl  with  the   rose-colored    ribbons   came  to  the  door  of  the  ante- 
room to -summon  her  mistress  to  luncheon,  but  Lady  Audley  only  open- 
ed the  door  a  little  Way,  and  intimated  her  intention  of  taking' no  lunch-    > 
eon.   .    ' 

"My  head  aches  terribly,  Martin,''  she  said  ;  "I- shall  go  and  lie  down 
till  dinner-time.     You  may.  come-at  l\ve  to  dress  me." 

Lady  Audley  said  this  with  the  pre-determination  of  dressing  at"  four,  ^ 
and  thus  dispensing  with  the  services  of  her  attendant.  Among  all 
'privileged  spies,  a  lady's-maid  has  the  highest  privileges  :  it  is,  she  who 
bathes  Lady  Theresa's  eyes  with  eau-de-Cologne  after  her  ladyship's 
quarrel  with  the  colonel ;  it  is  she  who  administers  sal-volatile  to  Miss 
Fanny  when  Count  Beaudesert,  of  the  Blues,  has  jilted  her.  »She  has  a 
hundred  methods  for  the  finding  out  of  her  mistress's  secrets.  She^ 
knows  by  the  manner  in  which  her  victim  jerks  her  head  from  under  the 
hair-brush,  or  chafes  at  the  gentlest  administration  of  the  comb,  what 
hidden  tortures  are  racking  her  breast — what  secret  perplexities  are  be- 
wildering her  brain.  That  well-bred  attendant  knows  how  to  interpret 
the  most  obscure  diagnosis  of  all  mental  diseases  that  can  afflict  her  mis- 
tress ;  she  knows  when  the  ivory  complexion  is  bought  and  paid  for-*— 
when  the  pearly  teeth  are  foreign  substances  fashioned  by  the  dentist — 
when  the  glossy  plaits  are  the  relics  of  the  dead,  rather  than  the  property 
of  the  living;  and  she  knows  other. and  more  sacred  secrets  thau  these  ; 
she  knows  when  the  sweet  smile  is  more  false  than  Madame  Levisou'f 
enamel,  and  far  less  enduring — when  the  words  that  issue  frombetweeil 
gates  of  borrowed  pearl  are  more  disguised  and  painted  than  the  lips 
which  help  to  shape  them— when  the  lovely  fairy  of  the  ball-room  re- 
enters the  dressing-room  after  the  night's  long  revery,  and  throws  aside 
her  voluminous  Burnous  and  her  faded  bouquet,  and  drops  her  mask, 
and  like  another  Cinderella  loses  the  glass-slipper,  by  whose  gliltei 
has  been  distinguished,  and  falls  back  into  her  rags  and  dirt,  the  lady's 
maid  is  by  *o  see  the  transformation.  The  valet  who  took  wages  from  , 
the,  prophet  of  Korazin  pust  have  seen  his  master  sometimes  unveiled, 
and  must  have  laughed  in  his  sleeve  at  the  folly  of  the  monster's  wor- 
shippers. 

Lady  Audley  had  made   no  confidant  of  her  new  maid,  and  on  this 
day  of  all  others  she  wished  to  be  alone. 

She  did  lie  down,  she  cast  herself  wearily  upon  the  luxurious  sofa  in  , 
the  dressing-room,  and  buried  her  face  in  the  down  pillows  and  tried  to 
sleep.     Sleep!— she  had  almost  forgotten  what  it  was,  that  "tender  re- 
storer of  tired  nature,   it  seemed  so  long  now  since  she  had  slept.     It 


LADY  AUl'i.i.i  'g  t  ecret.      .  229 

only  about  pight-and-foVty  hours  perhaps,,  but  it  appeared'an  intoler- 
iime.   .Hi  before,  and  her  unnatural  e 

,  had  worn  her  out  at  last..  She/did  full  asleep,  she  fell  into  a. heavy' 
slmxiber  that  was  almost  like  stupor.  She  had  taken  a  few  drops  but 
of  the  opium  bottle  in  .:i  pass  of  water  before  lying  down. 

The  clock  over  the  mantelpiece  chimed  the  quarter  before  four  as  she 
woke  s'uddenlj  and  started  up,  with  the  cold  prespiration  breaking  out 
in  icy  drops  upon  her  forehead.  She  had  dreamt  that  every  member  of 
the  household  vvas  clamoring  al  the  door,  eager  to  tell  her  of  a  dreadful 
fire  that  had  haj^Dened  in  the  night. 

.There  md  bujj,hc  flapping  of  the  ivy-leaves  against  the  glass, 

DCi  asional  falli  tiK|cr,  and  the"  steady  ticking  of -the  clock. 

,:  Perhaps  I  shall  I  dreaming  these  sort  of  dreams,"  my  lady 

thought,  '-until  the  terror  of  them  kills  me!" 

The  rain  had  ceased,  and  the  cold  spring  sunshine  was  glittering  upon 

"he  windows.     Lady  Audley  dressed  herself  rapidly  but  carefully.     1  do 

not  say  that  oven  in  her  supremest  hour  of  misery  she  still  retained  her 

pride  in  her  beauty.     It  was  not  so;  she  looked   upon*  thai  beauty  as  a 

weapon,  and  she  felt  that  she  had  now  double  need  to  be  well  armed. 

She  dressed  herself  in  her  most  gorgeous  silk, .a  voluminous  robe  of  sil- 

shimraering  blue,  that  made  her  look  as  if  she  had  been  arrayed  in 

il  teams.     She  shook  out  her  hair  into  feathery  showers  of  glittering 

gold,   and  with  a  cloak  of  white  cashmere  about  her  shoulders,  went 

down-stairs  into  the  vestibule. 

She  opened  the  door  of  the  library  and  looked  in.  Sir  Michael  Aud- 
ley was  asleep  in  his  easy-chair.  As  my  lady  softly  closed  this  door 
Alicia  descended  the  stairs  from  her  own  room.  The  turret,  door  was 
open,  and  the  sun  was  shining  upon  the  wet  grass-plat  in  the  quadran-' 
gle.  The  firm  gravel-walks  were  already  very  nearly  dry,  for  the  rain 
had  ceased  for  upward  of  two  hours. 

"  Will  you  take  a  walk  with  me  in  ttie  quadrangle?"  Lady  Audley 
asked,  as  her  step-daughter  approached.  The  armed  neutrality  between 
the  two  women  admitted  of  any  chance  civility  such  as  this. 

"  Yes,  if  you  please,  my  lady,"  Alicia  answered,  rather  listlessly.  "I 
have  been  yawning  over  a  stupid  novel  all  the  morning,  and  shall  be 
very  glad  of  a  little  fresh  air."    t 

Heaven  help  the  novelist  whose  fiction  Miss  Audley  -had  been  peru- 
sing if  he  bad  no  better  critics  I  han  that  young  lady.  She  had  read  page 
after  page  without  knowing  what  she  had  been  reading,  and  had  flung 
aside  the  volumes  half-a-dozen  times  to  go  to  the  window  and  watch  for 
that  visitor  whom  she  had  so  confidently  expected. 

Lady  Audley  led  the  way  through  the  low  door-way  and  on  to  the 
smooth  gravel  drive,  by  which  carriages  approached  the  house.  She 
was  still  very  pale,  but  the  brightness  of  her  dress  and  of  her  feathery 
golden  ringlet8  distracted  an  observer's  eyes  from  her  pallid  face.  All 
mental  distress  is,  with  some  show  of  reason,  associated  in  our  minds 
with  loose.  ed  garments  and  dishabilled  hair,  and  in  appearance 

in  every  way  the  reverse  of  my  lady's.     Why  had  she  come,  out  into 


.230  LADi:  AUDLFA'S  SECRET. 

the  chill  sunshine  of  the  March  afternoon  to  wander  up  and down  that, 
monotonous  pathway  wjth  the  step-daughter  she  hated  ?     She.  came  be- 
cause she  was  under  the  dominion  of  a  horrible  restlessness;  which  would 
not  sutler  her  to  remain   within   the   house  waiting  for  certain  tidings 
•which  she  knew  must  too  surely  come.     At  first  she  had  wished  to  ward  . 
thara.  off—at  first  she  had  wished  that  strange  convulsions  of  nature  might_  ■ 
arise   to  hinder  their  coming— that   abnormal  winter  lightnings  might 
wither  and  destroy  the  messenger  who   carried   them — that  the,  ground 
might  tremble  and  yawn   beneath   his   hastening  i'eet,  and  that, impass-. 
able  gulfs  might  separate  the  spot,  from  which  the  tiding^  were  to  come,' 
and  the  place  to  which  they  were  to  be  carried.     She  wished  that  the 
earth  might  stand  stilt,  and  the  paralyzed  elements  cease  from  their  na-. 
tural  functions,  that   the   progress  of  time  might'  stop,  that  the  Day  of 
Judgment  might  come,  and   that  she  might  thus  be  brought  before  an 
unearthly  tribunal,  and  so  escape  the  intervening  shame  and  misery  of^ 
any  earthly  judgment.     In  the  wild  chaos  of  her  brain,  every  one  of  these 
thoughts  had  held  its  place,  and  in  her  short  slumber  on  the  sofa  in  her 
dressing-room,  sftb.  had   dreamed  all  these  things  and  a  hundred  other 
things,  all  bearing  upon   the  same  subject.     She  had  dreamed  that  a 
brook,  a  tiny  streamlet'when  she  first  saw  it,  flowed  across  the  road,  be- 
tween Mount  Stanning  and  Audley,  and  gradually  swelled  into  a  river, 
and  from  a  river  became  an  ocean,  till  the  village  on  the  hill  receded  far  : 
away  out  of  sight  and  only  a  great  waste  of  waters  rolled  where  it  once 
had  been.     She  dreamt  that  she  saw  the  messenger,  now  one  person, 
now  another,  but  never  any  probable  person,  hindered  by  a  hundred 
hinderances,  now  startling  and  terrible,  now  ridiculous  and  trivial,  but 
never  either  natural  or  probable,  and  going  down  into  the  quiet  house 
with"  the  memory  of  these  dreams  strong  upon  her,  she  had  been  be- 
wildered by  the  stillness  which  had  betokened  that  the  tidings  had  not 
yet  come. 

And  now  her  mind  underwent  a  complete  change.  She  no  longer 
wished  to  delay  that  ...eaded  intelligence.  She  wished  the  agony,  what- 
ever it  was  to  be,  over  and  done  with,  the  pain  suffered,  and  the  release 
attained.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  the  intolerable  day  woulo)  never  come 
to  an  end,  as  if  her  mad  wishes  had  been  granted,  and  the  progress  of 
time  had  actually  stopped. 

"  What  a  long  day  it  has  been  I"  exclaimed  Alicia,  as  if  taking  up  the 
burden  of  my  lady's  thoughts ;  "nothing  but  drizzle  and  mist  and  wind  ! 
And  now  that  it's  too  late  for  anybody  to  go  out,  it  must  needs  be  fine," 
the  young  lady  added,  with  an  evident  sense  of  injury. 

Lady  Audley  did  not  answer.  She  was  looking  at  the  stupid  one- 
handed  clock,  and  waiting  :br  the  news  which  must  come  sooner  or  later, 
which  could"  not  surely  fail  to  come  very  speedily. 

•'They  have  been  afraid  to  come  and  tell  him,'-'  she  thought;  "they 
have  been  afraid  to  break  the  news  to  Sir  Michael.  Who  will  come  to 
tell  it,  at  last,  I  wonder  ?  The  rector  of  Mount  Stanning,  perhaps,  or 
the  doctor;  some  important  person  at  least." 

Jf  she  could  have  gone  out  into  the  leafless  avenues,  of  on  to  the  high 

% 


L.U>Y   AUDi.KY.-    -IVKET.  281 

beyond  them  ;  if  she  could  hftve'gbne  so  fhr.'a's  that  hill  upon  which 
srie  had  so  lately  parte  f  with  Phoabe,  she  would  have  gladly  done  so. 
She  would  rather  have  suffered  any  thing  than  that  slow  suspense,  that 
fcorfodihg  anxiety,  that  metaphysical  dry-rot  in  'which  heart  and  mind 
ii  to  decay  under  an  insufferable  torture.  She  tried  to  talk,  and 
by  a  painful  effort  contrived  now  and  then  to  utter  some  «commoni 
remark.  *  Under  any  ordinary  circumstances  her  companion  would  have 
noticed  her  embarrassment,  but  Miss  Audley,- happening  to  ho  very: 
much  absorbed  by  her  own  vexations,  was  quite  as  well  inclined  to.be 
silent  as  my  lady  hei  -i :lf.     The  monotonous  walk  up  and  down  thegrav-" 

oathway  silted  MU^s  htsmor.     I  think  that  she  even  took  .- 
licious  pleasure  in  il  lie  .was  very   likely  catching  cold,  and 

that  her  cousin  iruble  for  her  clanger.     If  she  could  have 

ight  upon  herself  inflammation  of.' tfaejungs,  or  ruptured  bloodves- 
sels, by  that  exposure  to  the  chill  March  atmosphere,  I  think  she  would 
have  felt  a  gloomy  satisfaction  in  her  sufferings.       ■»J^. 

"  Perhaps  Robert  might  care  far  me,  if  1  had  inflammation  of- the 
lungs,"  she  thought.-  "  He  couldn't -insult  me  by  calling  me  a  bouncer 
then.     Bouncers  don't  have  inflammation  of  the  lungs." 

I  believe  she  drew  a  picture  of  herself  in  the  last  stage  of  consump- 
tion, propped  trp  by  pillows  in  a  great  easy-chair,  looking  out  of  a  win- 
dow in  the  afternoon  sunshine,  with  medicine  bottles,  a  bunch  of  grapes 
and  a  Bible  upon  a  table  by  her  s*ide,  and  with  Robert,  all  contrition  and 
tenderness,  summoned  to  receive  her  farewell  blegsing.  She  preached. a 
whole  chapter  to  him  in  that  parting  benediction,  talking  a  great  deal 
longer  than  was  in  keeping  with  her  prostrate  state,  and  very*  much  en- 
joying her  dismal  castle  in  the  air.  Employed  in  this  sentimental  man- 
ner. Miss  Audley  took  very  little  notice  of  her  step-mother,  and  the  one 
hand  of  the  blundering clock  had  slipped  to  six  by  the  time  Robert  had 
been  blessed  and  dismissed. 

"  Good  gracious  me  !"  she  cried,  suddenly — "six  o'clock,  and  I'm  not 
dressed." 

The  half  hour  bell  rang  in  a  cupola  upon  the  roof  while  Alicia  was 
speaking. 

"  I  must  go  iii,  my  lady."  she  said.     "  Won't  you  come?" 

"Presently,"  answered  Lady  Audley.     "I'm  dressed,  you  see." 

Alicia  ran  off.  but  Sir  Michael's  wife 'still  lingered  in  the  quadrangle, 
still  waited  for  those  tidings  which  were  so  long  coming. 

It  was  nearly  dark.  The.  blue  mists  of  evening  had  slowly  risen  from 
the  ground.  The  flat  meadows  were  filled  with  a  gray  vapor,  and  a 
stranger  might  have  fancied  Audley  Court  a  castle  on  the  margin  of  a 
sea.  Under  the  archway  the  shadows  of  fast-coming  night  lurked  dark- 
ly, like  traitors  waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  glide  stealthily  into  the 
quadrangle.  Through  the  archway  a' patch  of  cold  blue  sky  glimmered 
faintly,  streaked  by  one  line  of  lurid  crimson,  and  lighted  by  the  dim 
.glitter  t)f  one  wintry-looking  star.  No;  a  creature  was  stirring  in  the 
quadrangle  but  the  restless  woman  who  paced  up  and  down  the  straight 
pathways*,  listening  for  a  footstep  whose  oominc  was  to  strike  terror  to 


232  '      J.ADV  AUDLK'  T."  ' 

her  soul.     She  heard  it  at  last! — a'- footstep  in  the  aVenue  upon  the  oth-  * 
er.  side  of  the  archway.  .  But  was  it  the  footstep*   .Her  sense  of  hearing, 
made  unnaturally  acute  by  excitement,  toJd  her  that  it  wan  a  man's  foot- 
step—told  even  more,  that  it  was  the  tread  of  a  gentleman,  no  slouch-- . 
ing,  lumbering  pedestrian  in  hobnailed  boots,   but  a  gentleman  who 
walked  firmly  and  we)l. 

Every  sound  fell  like  a  lump  of  ice  upon  my  lady's  heart.  She  could 
not  wait,  she  could  not  contain  herself,  she  lost  all  self-control,  all  power 
of  endurance,  all  capability  of 'self-restraint,  and  she  lushed  toward  the 
archway,. 

She  paused  beneath  its  shadow,  for  the  stranger  was  close  upon  her. 
She  saw  him,  oh,  God  !  she.  saw  him  in  that  dim  evening  light.  Her 
brain  reeled,  her  heart  stopped  beating.  She  uttered  no  cry  of  surprise, 
no  exclamation  of  terror,  but  staggered  backward  and  clung  for  support 
to  the  ivied  buttress  of  the  archway.  With  her  slender  figure  crouched 
into  the  angle  formed  by  this  buttress  and  the  wall  which  it  supported, 
she  stood  staring  at  the  new  comer. 

As  he  approached  her  more  closely  her  knees  sunk  under  her,  and  she  . 
dropped  to  the  ground,  not  fainting,  or  in  any  manner  unconscious,  but 
sinking  into  a  crouching  attitude,  and  still  crushed  into  the  angle  of  the 
wall,  as  if  she  would  have  made  a  tomb  for  herself  in  the  shadow. of  that 
sheltering  brickwork.  • 

"  My  lady  !" 

The  speaker  was  Robert  Audley.  He  whose  bedroom  door  she  had 
double-locked  seventeen  hours  before  at  the  Castle  Inn. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you1?"  he  said,  in  a  strange,  constrained 
manner.     "  Get  up,  and  let  me  take  you  indoors." 

He  assisted  her  to  rise,  and  she  obeyed  him,  very  submissively.  He 
took  her  arm  in  his  strong  hand  and  led  her  across  the  quadrangle  and 
into  the  lamp-lit  hall.  .  She  shivered  more  violently  than  he  had  ever 
seen  any  woman  shiver  before,  but  she' made  no  attempt  at  resistance 
to  his  will. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

MY  LADY  TELLS  THE  TRUTH. 


"  Is  there  any  room  in  which  I  can  talk  to  you  alone  ?"  Robert  Audley 
asked,  as  he  looked  dubiously  round  the  hall. 

My  lady  only  bowed  her  head  in  answer.  She  pushed  open  the  door 
of  the  library,  which  had  been  left  ajar!  Sir  Michael  had  gone  to  his 
dressing-room  to  prepare  for  dinner  after  a  day  of  lazy  enjoyment,  per- 


fectly  legitimate  for  au  invalid;    The  apart 

lighted  by  the  blaze  of  I 

0 

by  Robert,  ■  !   the 

behind  him.      Hie  Wretched,  shivering  tyomau  v 
.and  knelt  down  before  the  bla  any   natural   w  I   hate 

.  that  unnatural  chill.     The  young  mai 
ide  her  upon  the  hearth,  with  his 

"  Lady 

■ 
plainly,  but  you"  r<  <e.     To-ni; 

still  more  plaii 

My  lad;  I,,   l,rr  hands, 

■uttered  a  low,  sobbi  I  which  was  aln 

other  ans\ 

"There  was  a  fire  last  night  a"-,  Mount  'Sf 
pitiless  voice  proceeded  :  astle  Inh,  the  house   in 

was  .burned  to  tho  ground.    *1  >o  you  know  how 
that  destruction  I" 

«  No."' 

<:  1  escaped  by  a  most  providential  circumstance  which  seems  a  < 
simple  one.     I  did  not  sleep  in  the  room  which*  had   been  prepare 
me.     The  place  seemed  wretchedly  damp  and  chilly,  the  chimne 
abominably  when  an  attempt  was  made  at  lighting  a  (ire,  and   I  pi 
dedthc  servant  to  make  me  up  a  bed  upon  the  sofa  in  the  small  ground- 
Iloor  sitting-room  which  I  h  a  d  during  the  eveni; 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  watching  the"  crouching  tig' ire.     Tho 
change  in  my  lady's  attitude  was  that  her  head  had  (alien  a  little  ]. 

"Shall  I  tell'you  by  whose  agency  the  destruction  of  the  Castle  Inn 
was  brought  about,  my  lady  ?"    ' 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Shall  I  tell  you?" 

Still  the  same  obstinate  sih ti 

"My  Lady  Audley,"  cried  Robert,  suddenly,  "  yon  were  the  incen- 
diary. It  was  you  whose  murderous  hand  kindled  those  flames.  It  was 
you  who  thought  by  that  thrice-horrible  deed  to  rid  yourself  of  me,  your 
enemy  and  denouncer.  What  was  it  to  yon  that  other  lives  might  be 
sacrificed?     If  b\  a  second  m  nt  Bart!1  could 

have  ridded  yourself  of  me,  you  would  have  freely  s; 
victims.     The  day  i  ss  and  mercy.     For  you  Ic, 

longer  know  pity  or  compunction.  So  far  as  by  sparing  your  shame  I 
can  spare  others  who  must  suffer  by  your  shame*  I  will  l>e  merciful,  but 
no  further.  If  there  were  any  secret  tribunal  before  which  you  might 
be  made  to  answer  for  your  c  #ould  have  little  scruph 

your  :  :  "ti  would  spare  tha 

upon  whose  noble  name  your  infamy  \ 

His   voice  softened  as  he  made  this  allusion,  and  for  a  m 


234  .        LAiA    AL'DLEY^  SECRET. 

broke  d  I  he  recovered  himself  by  an  effort  and  continued  — 

"N'6  life,  was  lgs'fc  in  the"  lire    of  last    night.      1  slept  lightly^  my  litdy, 
fo  d.-as  it  hasjjfc>een  for  a  lorn*  time,  by  l{' 

upon    this   ho;..-  e.      Il  was  I  who  disci  verei 
the  breaking  out   of  the    fire   in    time  to  give  the  alarm  and  I 

nt  girl. and  the  poor  drunken  wretch,  who  was  very  much  burnt  in* 
spite  ofrny  efforts,  and  who  now  lies  in  a  precarious  state  at  his  mother's 
'cottage;     It,  ,was   from   him   and   from   his.  wife  that  1  learned  who  had 
visited  the  Castle  Inn  in  the  dead  of  tJie  night.     The  woman  was  almost 
:  %'  detracted  when   she  'saw   me,  and  particulars* 

of  last  night.     ITea  vcu.  knows-  what  other  i  •  may  hold, 

inv  lady,  in-  how  easily  they  <    ight  h^^fprtcd  from  her  if  I  wanted  her 
which  1  do  not.      My  -ps^^jjiamKery    straight   before    me.      1  have 
sworn    to   bring  the   murderer   m  George  Talboys  to  justice,  and  I  will, 
keep  my  oath.  it   was  by  yoor  agencf  my  friend  met  wtth 

his  death.      If  i    have.  v  sometimes,    as    it   was   only    natural! 

hetherl'was  not  the  victim  of  some  horrible  hallucination, 
her  such  an  alternative  was  not  more  probable  than  that  a  young 
and  lovely  woman  should  be  capable  of  so  foul  and  treacherous  a  mur- 
der, all  wonder  is  past.  After  last  night's  deed  of  horror,  (here  is  no 
crime  you  could  commit,  however  vast  and  unnatural,  which  could  make 
me  wonder.  Henceforth  you  must  seem  to  me  no  longer  a  woman,  a 
guilty  woman  with  a  heart  which  in* its  worst  wickedness  has  yet  some 
latent!  power  to  suffer  and  feel,  I  look  upon  you  henceforth  as  the  de- 
moniac incarnation  of  some  evil  principle.  But  you  shall  no  longer  pol- 
lute this  place  by  your  presence.  Unless  you  will  confess  what  yon  are 
and  who  you  are  in  the  presence  of  the  man  you  have  deceived  so  long, 
anl  accept  from  him  and  from  me  such  mercy  as  we  may  be  inclined  to 
extend  to  you,  I  will  gather  together  the  witnesses  who  shall  swear  to 
your  identity,  and  at  .peril  of  any  shame  to  myself  and  those  I  love,  I 
will  bring  upon  you  the  just' and  awful  punishment  of  your  crime." 

The  woman  rose,  suddenly  and  stood  before  him  erect  and  resolute, 
with  her  hair  dashed  away  from  her  face  and  her  eyes  glittering. 

li  Bring  Sir  Michael  !"  she  cried  ;  "  bring  him  here,  and  1  will  confess 
anything — everything  !  What  do  I  care  ?  God  knows  I  have  struggled 
hafd  enough  against  you,  and  fought  the  battle  patiently  enough  ;  but 
you  have  conquered,  Mr.  Robert  Audley.  It  is  a  great  triumph,  is  it 
not  1 — a  wonderful  victory  !  You  have  used  your  cool,  calculating,  frigid, 
luminous  intellect  to  a  noble  purpose.  You  have  conquered — a  mad 
■woman!" 

"A  mad  woman  !"  cried  Mr.  Audley. 

"Yes,  a  mad  woman.  When  you  say  that!  killed  George  Talboys, 
you  say  the  truth.  When  you  say  that  I  murdered  him  treacherously 
and  foully,  you  lie.  I  killed  him  because  I  am  mad!  because  my  intel- 
lect is  a  little  way  upon  the  wrong  side  of  that  narrow  boundary-line 
between  sanity  and  insanity;  because,  when  George.  Talboys  goaded  me, 
.  as  you  have  goaded  me,  and  reproached  me,  and  threatened  me,  my 
mind,  never  pRiperly  balanced,'  utterly  Ib&fc  its  balance,  and  1  was  mad! 


.LADY 


Bring- Sir  Michael  ;  and  brii  '  ]  one 

.  let  him   be   fold   everything  ;  let  him  hear  thi 
Bert  Aiil] 
.  of  that  honored    kinsman  with  God  knov 
guish  at  his  h<  art,  for  he  knew  he  was 

of  hisxmele'i   Iif<  :      id  he  knew  "that  our  di  ijncme  the  ' 

bio  to  lose       '  >Y  which  we  have 

mistaken  them.     Hut  even   in   the  midst  of  his  sorrow-  for ,Sii 
he  could  u<  .    help  woud>  my    lady's  last-words — f  th 

my  life.'*     lie  mi   thos.e  lines   in 

■■  e  J^^jfljght  fioiri  Wih'  -.  hieh  had 

him.     Me  i 
me.  for  Von  kr 

lie  met  Sir  Michael  in  the  hall.    'II  cthc 

way  for  the  terrible  revelation  which  th  t  uas  to  h 

him  into  the  fire-lit  library,   iv.rd    the: 
him  quietly  thus  : — 

"  Lady  Andley  has  a-  confession   to   mal 
which  I  know, will  be  a  most  cruel   surprise,  a  in 
is  necessary  for  your  present   honor,  and  for  your  future  peace,  that 
should   hear  it.  «  I  he   has  deceived   you,  I 

but  it  is  only  ii<zht  that   you  should  hear  from  her  own  lips  an  ' 
which  she  ma;,  have  to  offer   for  her  wickedness.     May  (  n  this 

blow  for  you  !"  sobbed   the  young   man,   suddenly-breaking  down  ;  "1 
cannot!" 

•    Sir  Michael  lifted  his  hand  as  if  he  w.duld  have  commanded  his*  neph&w 
to  be  silent,  but   that  imperious   hand   dropped  feeble  ami  impotent  at 
bis  side.     He  stood   in   the   centre  of  the  fire-lit  room  rigid  an 
able. 

"  Lucy  !"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  whose  anguish  struck  like  a  blow  upon 
the  jarred  nerves  of  those  who  1 1 .  ard  it.  as  the  cry  of  a  wounded  animal 
pains  the  listener — "  Lucy  !  tell  me  that  thi  man- is  a  madman  !  tell  mo 
so,  my  love,  or  1  shall  kill  him  !"  > 

There  was  a  sudden  fury  in  his  voice  as  he  turned  upon  Robert,  as  if 
he  could  indeed  have  felled  his  wife's  accuser  to  th  it h. the  strength 

of  his  uplifted  arm. 

But  my   lady   fell   upon  her  knees  at  his  feet,  interposing  herself  be- 
tween the  baronet  and  his  nephew,  who  stood    leaning  upon  tl 
an  eas)  chair,  with  his  face  hidden  by  his  hand. 

"IJe  has  told    you   the  truth,"'  said  my  lady.  •  mad  !      I 

have  sent    for"  you  that  1  may  col  I  should  be 

sorry  for  you  it  I  could,  for  you  have  been  very,  very  good  to  me,  much' 
better  to  me  than  I  ever  ;   but  I  can't,  I  can't — I  can  feel 

ing  but  my  own  misery;     I  told    you    lot        go  that  I  was  selfish  ;   1  am 
selfish  still — more  selfish  than   over  in  my 
people  may  feel  for  o; hers,     [laugh   at   other  p 
seem  so  small  compare  n." 

WMi  fir>t  my  IjkIt  had  kdle«  on  her  k-ue^  I  had  attempt- 


::'o() 

ke  he 
drbpp  '  ■•     '  and  with  ■ 

his  h- 

f  those  hoi .  is  whale  In 

•d  mtp  tha  v  r  hearing'. 

.    ':I  must  tell  you  the  s  ■;  on  why 'I  have. ' 

become  the  miserable  wretch  who  has  no  better  hope  wed 

to  run  away  an  some  desolate*  corner  of  tell 

you    the- **story   of."  my  'life,''  repeated  my  lady,  <;  but  I  fear  • 

'that  I  shaft  dwell  long  upon.  it.     [i  that 

,!d  wish  to  remember  it.  !  waj^Bfeli  e.em- 

ber  a diing  a  question*  which  -it   wasjmturai  1  should   ask, 

dp  me  !     I  asked  whei  a  faint  rcmera- 

l  tif  a  face,   lii;  my   own  is  now,  looking  at  me  when  I  was 

•  better  tbanjk-baby  ;  but  I  had  missed  the  face  suddenly,  and 
had  ne\  sy   told   me  thafmy  mother  was  away.**  I 

was  not  h.  ,oman  who  had  charge  of  m,e  was  a  disagreeable 

m,  and  the  place  in  which  we  lived  was- a  lonely  place,  a  village 
upon 'the  Hampshire  coast,  about  sqven  miles  from  Portsmouth.  My 
father,  who  was  in  the  navy,  only  came  now  and  then  to  see-me;  and  I 
was  left;  almost -entirely  to  the  charge  of  this  woman,  who  was  irregularly 
p4'id,  and*  who  vented  her  rage  upon  me  when  my  father  was  behindhand 
in  remitting  her  money.' •  So  you  see  that  at  a  very  early  age  I  found 
out  what  it  was  to  be  poor. 

"Perhaps  it  was  more  from  being  discontented  with  my  dreary  life 
than  from  any  wonderful  impulse  of  affection,  that  j[  asked  very  often  the 
same  question  about  my  mother.  I  always -received  the  same  answer 
— she  was  away.  When  I  asked  where,  I  Was  told  that  that  was  a  se- 
cret. When  I  grew  old  enough  to  understand  the  meaning  of  the  word 
death,  I  asked  if  my  mother  was  dead,  and  I  was  told — '  No,  she  was 
not  dead  ;  she  was  ill,  and  she  was  away.'  I  asked  how  long  she  had 
been  ill,  and  I  was  told  that  she  had  been  so  some  years,  ever  since  I 
was  a  baby. 

"  At  last  the  secret  came  out.  I  worried  my  foster-mother  with  the 
old  .question  one  day  when  the  remittances  had  fallen  very  much  in  ar- 
rear,  and  her  temper  had  been  unusually  tried.  She  flew  into  a  passion, 
and  told  me  that  my  mothes  was  a  mad  woman,  and  that  she  was  in  a 
madhouse  forty  miles  away.  She  had  scarcely  said  this  when  she  re- 
pented, and  told  me  that  it  was  not  the  truth,  and  that  I  was  not  to  be-  ■ 
Jieve  it,  or  to  say  that  she  had  told  me  such  a  thing.  "  I  discovered  after- 
ward that  my  father,  had  made'  her  promise  most  solemnly  never  to  tell 
me  the  secret  of  my  mother's  fate. 

"  I  brooded  horribly  upon  the  thought,  of  my  mother's  madness.  It 
haunted  me  by  day  and  night.  I  was  always  picturing  to  myself  this 
mad  woman  pacing  up  and  down  some  prison  cell,  in  a  hideous  garment 
that  bound  her  tortured  limbs.  I  had  exaggerated  ideas  of  the  horror  of 
her  situation.  I  had  no  knowledge  of  the  different  degrees  of  madness, 
and  the  image,  that  haunted  me  was  that  of  a  distraught  and  violent 


\  in  an  aj 
my  )  ; 

",  V.  hen  ! 
to  my.pro.teci  res  .  an  1 
shire  1 

*  ing  i! 
father  was  poor/' 

]V[\  'dj^^^mcnN  but  only 

j  spok 
with  it.     She  was  still  o 
raise  her.  .   ' 

He  sat  silc-.ri t  and  imm 
tening  to  .' 

his  Wife's  ;  he  had  hoard  her 
lieved  ij-  as  he  had 
brief  story  of  an  ea 
in  the  conventional  seclusio 

"  My  father  came  at  last,  and  i  told  him  wha'l 
very  much  affected  when  I  8) 
the  world  generally  call  ian.  hut   1  learned   afterward   that  he 

had  loved  his  wife  very  dearly,  and  that  he  would  have  wlllii 

his  life  to  her,  and  n,  had   h 

earn  the  daily  the  mad  -  child 

by  thCexercise'of  his  pr<3 

•r.  who  mi 
devi  nd,  was  given  oVer  to  the  care  of  hired  nut 

"  Before  my  father  sent,  me  I  at  Torqo 

my  motht  r.   .  This  visit  served  at 
often  tii  litied  me.     [  saw  no 

by  zealous  jailors,  but-  haired,  b  .  who 

seemed  as  fri-  a  butterfly,  and  win  I  h  her' 

yellow  cm 

smiles,  and  gay,  ceaseles 
"  But  she  didn'i  know 
ncr  to  any  stranger  who  had 

.. 
her  t:  id.     She.  I 

had  :.  up  '■'.<  the  hour  of  my   birth,  bu    from  I  r  her 

1  .y  with  the.  knowledj 

*  the.  only  inhcritaijc  ■   I   had  to  expert 
sanity ! 

"  1  v  ith  this  ki  'i  myjmh 

more 
thc  ■  :  i  f  wa 


LADY   ALTDLEY'.-:  i^CMET 

for  ft  way  \h--  secret  that  might  affect;  me  injuriously  in  after- 
life,    i  was  to  remeorvberthis. 

'•I  did  remember  this;  and  it  was,  perhaps,  th|slhat,made"n\e' selfish^ 
and  heartless,  for  I  suppose  1  am  heartless.     As  I  grew  older  I  .was. told 
that  I   w;i.s   pretty— be-autiftd—  lovely — bewitching.'  1   heard    all   I 
things; at  first  .indifferently,  but  by-and-by  1- listened   to  them  greedilyj 
and  began  to  .think  that  in  spite  of  .the  secret  of  my  life  1  might  be  more 
-fill  in  the  worlds  great  lot!  iy  companions.,  #  1  had  learnt 

that  which  in  «ome  indefinite i'rhanner  or  other   every    school-girl -learns" 
sooner  orflat.or — I  learned  that  my  ultimate  fate  in   life  depended  upon 
ge,  an'd  I  concluded-  that  if . I   wa&jjHHi  prettier   than   my 
•  ■.vs.  bought  to  marry  better^ian  any  of  them. 

...veuteen  i  with  this  thought 

in  my  mind,  and  1  went  toJ^.ve  at  the  other  extremity  of  England  with 
my  father:  who  had  retired  upon  his  half-pay.  aid  had  established  him- 
self at  '  ■  idea  that  the  place  was  cheap  and  select. 

"  The  place  was  in  I  ct.     I  had  not  been  there  a  month  before 

I  discovered  that  even  the  prettiest  ,girl  might  wait  a  long  time  for  a 
rich  husband.  I  wish  to  hurry  over  this  part  of  my  life  ;  I  dare  say  I 
was  vet;y  despicable.  You  and  your  nephew,  Sir  Michael,  have  heen 
rich  all  your  lives,  and  can  very  well  afford  to  despise  mer,  but  I  know 
how  far  poverty  can  affect  a  life,  and  I  looked  forward  with  a  sickening 
dread  to  a  life  so  affected.  At  last  the  rich  suitor,  the  wandering  prince 
came." 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  and  shuddered  convulsively.  It  was  im- 
possible to  see  any  of  the  changes  of  her  countenance,  for  her  face  w^as 
obstinately  bent  toward  the  floor.  .  Throughout  her  long  confession  she 
never  lifted  it ;  throughout  her  long  confession  her  voice  was  never  bro-' 
ken  by  a  tear.  What  she  had  to  tell  she  told  in  a  cold,  hard  tone,  very 
much  the  tone  in  which  some  criminal,  dogged  and  sullen  to  the  last, 
might. have  confessed  to  a  jajl. chaplain. 

"  The  wandering  prince  came,"  she  repeated  ;  "  he  was  called  George 
TalboyV\  ,    ' 

*  For  the  first  time  since  his  wife's  confession  had  begun,  Sir  Michael 
Audley  started.  He  began  to  understand  it  all  now.  A  crowd  of  un- 
heeded words  and  forgotten  circumstances  that,  had  seemed  too  insignifi- 
cant for  remark  or  recollection,  flashed  back  upon  him  as  vividly  as  if 
they  had  been  the  leading  incidents  of  his  past  life. 

':  Mr.  George  Talboys  was|  a  cornet  in  a  dragoon  regiment.  He  was 
the  only  son  of  a  rich  country  gentleman.  >  He  fell  in  love  with  me,  and 
married  me  three  months  after  my  seventeenth  birthday.  I  think  I  loved 
him  as  much  as  it  was  in  my  power  to  love  anybody  ;  not  more  than  I 
have  loved  you,  Sir  Michael— not  so  much,  for  when  you  married  me 
you  elevated  me  to  a  position  that  he  could  never  have  given  me." 

The  dream  was  broken.  Sir  Michael  Audley  remembered  that  sum- 
mer's evening,  nearly  two  year's  ago,  when  he  had  first  declared  his  love 
for  Mr.  Dawson's  governess  ;  he  remembered  the  sick,  half-shuddering 
eensatiQfi  of  regret  and  disappointment  that  had  come  over  him  then, 


LADY.AUBLEY'S  <S£c:  .  28(j 

and  he  felt:  a,s  ifit  had  in  some  manner  dimly   foreshadb.wed  the  ': 
of  to-night.  * 

.     But,  1  clo  not  believe  that  even  in  Iris'^vi'iscfy   he   felt  ,that  entire  and 
igated  surprise,  that  utter  r.evul.siou  i  •    when  a 

good  woman  wanders  away  from  herself  an 
whom  her  husband  is  bound  in  honor  to  objure;     1th- ho!  I 
Michael  AuYilej   had  ever  really      lieved  in  his  wife.     '! 
and  a  li  r:  he  had  been  bewitched  by  her  beauty  and  !■■ 

[•ins  ;    hut  thai 

on   the    f 
night :.  of  his  beUtothal,  jJHbeeii  with  him    more    or>  les's   d"i>ti 

!  i  ^^^Bbttdmm  •  s  t 
may  be  his  min 

voluntary  i     t  to  i" 

'*  We  were  married,"  my   lady   con' 
well,  quite  well  enough  to  be  happy  with  hi 

ind  while  we  were  on  t h«  lit  •: 

always  staying  at  the  best  hotels.     Hut    when  v.  VVil- 

dernsea  and  lived,  with  papa,  and  all  the  mi  I  ! 

grew  gloorriy  and  wretched,  and  was  always  thinking  of  his  tiou 
and  appeared  to  neglect  me,  I  was  very  unh  med  as   if 

this  line   marriage  had   om*y  given   me  a  twelve  mon 
travaganee   after  ail.     1  begged  "George  to  appeal  to  his  father,  but  ho 
refused.     I  persuaded   him  to  try  and   get   employment^   ana"  he   failed. 
jSI \   baby  was  bom,  and  the  crisis  which  had    been  fata!    to  m 
arose  for  me.     I  escaped,  but  1  was  more  irritable  perhaps   after  m 

ry,  less  inclined  to  fight  the  hard  battle  of  the  world,  mon 
to  complain  of  poverty  and   neglect.     I  did  com  plain 
and  bitterly  ;  I  upbraided  <\  afor  his  cruelty  in  having  allied 

a  helpless  girl   to  poverty  and  mi  cry.  and  he  flew  into  a  passion 
me  and  ran  out  of  the  bouse..     When  1  awoke  the  next  morning,  I  found 
a  letter  lying  on  the  table   by    my  bed,  telling  trie  that  he  was  goil 
the  antipodes  to  seek  his  fortune,  and  that  he  would  i  igain 

until  he  was  a  rich  man. 

"I  looked  upon  this  as  a  desertion,  and  I  resented  it  bitterly — I  re 
ed  it  by  haling  the  man  who  had  left  me  with  no  protector  bu 
tipsy  father,   and    with  a  child    to    support.      I  had  t  rd  for  my 

living,  and  in  every  hour  of  labor — and  what  la 
than  the.  dull  slavery   of 

•lone  me  by  George  Talboys,     His  father  was  rich,  : 
in  luxury  and  r  lity,  and  I,  his  wife,  and  the  mother  of  his 

slave  allied  forever  to  beggary  ; 
and  I  hated    them    for   tl  I  did 

left  a  burden- upon  my  hands.     The  hereditary   taint  that   w 
my  blood  had  never   until   this   time   showed    itself  by  ai . .   i 
token  ;  but  at  thifctlme  I  became  subject  to  fits  of  vi 
At  this  time  1  think  my  mind  lirsi  moo,  and  for  the  ir»l  time 


240  LADY   AUbLEY'ti  teECUE'i.  ■ 

I  crossed  i  ible  line  which  separates  .-reason  from  madness.    .1  : 

Have  Seen  my  lather's  eyes  fixed -upon  me.  in  horror  and  alarm.     Ihave 

ohly  mad   people  and  children  axe  soothed, 
fed  against  his  petty  device's,  1  have. resented  even  his  in-  • 
dulg.": 

t  last  these  fits  of  desperation  resolved  themselves  into  a  desperate 

I  determined ^to  run  away  from  this  v  .etched  home  which  my 

iy  supported.     I  determined   to  desert  this  father  who  had  more 

fear  of  me  than  h-ve  for  roe..    I  determined   to  go   to  London,  and  lose 

if  in  that  great  chaOS  of  humanity. 

■nfc  in  the  TiinemH^l  wag  at  Wildernsea, . 
presented  myself  t<  iuc^L^ie  :ser,  under  a  feigned 

ccepted  _m  to  my  antecedents. 

You  i>no\£  the  rest.     IcaM|  .  '  ■ .me  an  offer,  the  accept- 

ance of  which  ce  into  the  sphere  to -which  my  ambi- 

tion had  r  nee  1  was  a  schoolgirl,  and  heard  for  the  first 

time  that 

passed,  and  I  had  received  no  token  of  my  husband's 
existei  that  if  he  had  returned  to' England,  he  would 

succeeded  in  finding,  me  under  any  name  and  in  any  place.     1  knew 
of  his  character  well  enough  to  know  this. 
••  I  said  'I  have  a  right  to  think  that  he  is  dead,  or  that  he  wishes  me 
to  believe  hhn  dead,  and  his  shadow-  shall  not  stand  between  me  and 
prosperity.'     I  said  this,  and  I  became  your  wife,  Sir  Michael,  with  every 
•resolution  to  be  as  good  a  wife  as  it  was  in  my  nature  to  be.     The  com- 
mon temptation  that  assail  and  shipwreck  some  women  had  no  terror  for 
me.     I  would  have  been  your  true  and  pure  wife  to  the  end  of  time, 
though  I  had  been  surrounded  by  a  legion  of*  tempters.     The  mad  folly 
that  the  world  calls  love  had  never  had  any  part  in  my  madness,  and 
here  at  least  extremes  met,  and  the  vice,  of  heartlessness  became  the 
virtue  of  constancy. 

"I  was  very  happy  in  the  first  triumph  and  gi  iideur  of  my  new  posi- 
tion, very  grateful  to  the  hand  that  had  lifted  me  to  it.  In  the  sunshine 
of  my  own  happiness  I  felt,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  for  the,  miseries 
of  others.  I  had  been  poor  myself,  andvI  was  now  rich,  and  could  afford 
to  pity  and  relieve  the  poverty  of  my  neighbors.  I  took  pleasure  in 
acts  of  kindness  and  benevolence.  I  found  out  my  father's  address  and 
sent  him  large  sums  of  money,  anonymously;  for  I  did  not  wish  him  to 
discover  what  htfd  become  of  me.  \  availed  myself  to  the  full  of  the 
privilege  your  generosity  afforded  me.  [  dispensed  happiness  on  every 
side.  1  saw  myself  loved  as  well  as  admired,  and  Itthink  I  might  have 
been  a  good  woman  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  if  fate  would  have  allowed 
me  to  be  so. 

"1  believe  that. at  this  time  my  mind  regained  its  just  balance.  1  had 
watched  myself  very  closely  since  leaving  Wildernsea ;  I  had  held  a 
check  upon  myself.  I  had  often  wondered  while  sitting  in  the  surgeon's 
quiet  family  circle  wkether  any  suspicion  of  that  invisible,  hereditary 
taint  had  ever  occurred  to  Mr.'  Dawson. 


LADY.  AUDLEY'S  SECRET  241 

"Fate  would  not  suffer  mc  to  be  good.     My  destiny  compelled  me 
to  be  a  wretch'.     Within  a  month  of  my  marriage,  I  read  in  one  of  the 
Essex  papers  of  the  return  of  a  certain  Mr.  Talboys,  a  fortunate  gold- 
seeker,  from  Australia.     The  ship  had  sailed  at  the  time  I  read  the  par-- 
■  agraph.     What  was  to  be  done,  ? 

"  I  said  just  now  that  I  knew  the  energy  of  George's  character.  I  knew 
that  the  man  who  had  gone  to  the  antipodes  and  won  a  fortune  for  his 
wife  would  leave  no  stone  unturned  in  his  efforts  to  find  her.  It  was 
hopeless  to  think  of  hiding  myself  from  him. 

"  Unless  he  could  be  induced  to  believe  that  I  was  dead,  he  would 
never  cease  ia^is  seaMJ^for  mc. 

"My  brain  was  dazed-fts  I  thought  of  my  peril.  Again  the  balance 
trembled,  again  the  invisible  boundary  way  passed,  again  I  was  mad. 

"I  went  down  to  Southampton  and  found  my  father,  who  was  living 
there  with  my  child.  You  remember  how  Mrs.  Vincent's  name  was 
used  as  an  excuse  for  this  hurried  journey,  and  how  it  was  contrived, 
that  I  should  go  with  no  other  escort  than  Phoebe  Marks,  whom  I  left  at 
the  hotel  while  I  went  to  my  father's  house. 

"  1  confided,  to  my  father  the  whole  secret  of  my  peril.  He  was  not 
very  much  shocked  at  what  I  had  done,  for  poverty  had  perhaps  blunted 
his  sense  of  honor  and  principle.  He  was  not  very  much  shocked,  but 
he  was  frightened,  and  he  promised  to  do  all  in  his  power  to  assist  me 
in  my  fiorrible  emergency. 

"He  had  received  a  letter  addressed  to  me  at  Wildernsea,  by  George,, 
and  forwarded  from  there  to  my  father.  This  letter  had  been  written 
within  a  few  days  of  the  sailing  of  the  Argus,  and  it  announced  the  pro- 
bable date  of  the  ship's  arrival  at  Liverpool.  This  letter  gave  us,  there- 
fore, data  upon  which  to  act. 

'-'  We  decided  at  once  upon  the  first  step.  This  was  that  on  the  date  of 
the  probable  arrival  of  the  Argus,  or  a  few  days  later,  an  advertisement 
of  my  death  should  be  inserted  in  the  Times. 

"  But  almost  immediately  after  deciding  upon  this,  we  saw  that  there 
were  fearful  difficulties  in  the  carrying  out  of  such  a  simple  plan.  The 
date  of  the  death,  and  the  place  in  which  I  died,  must  be  announced,  as 
well  as  the  death  itself.  George  would  immediately  hurry  to  that 
place,  however  distant  it  might  be,  however  comparatively  inaccessible, 
and  the  shallow  falsehood  would  be  discovered. 

"  I  knew  enough  of  his  sanguine  temperament,  his  courage  and  de- 
termination, his  readiness  to  hope  against  hope,  to  know  that  unless 
he  saw  the  grave  in  which  I  was  buried,  and  the  register  of  my  death, 
he  would  never  believe  that  I  was  lost  to  him. 

"  My  father  was  utterly  dumfounded  and  helpless.  He  could  only 
shed  childish  tears  of  despair  and  terror.  He  was  of  no  use  to  me  in 
this  crisis. 

"I  was  hopeless  of  any  issue  out  of  my  difficulty.     I  began  to  think 
that  I  must  trust  to  the  chapter  o£  accidents,  and  hope  that  among  o 
obsoure  corners  of  the  earth,  Audjey  Court  might  remain  undreamt-of 
by  -my  husband.  *" 

h. 


242  LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECKET 

"  I  sat  with  my  father,  drinking  tea  with  him  in  his  miserable  hovel, 
and  playing  with  the  child,  who  was  pleased  with  my  dress  and  jewels, 
■  but  quite  unconscious  that  I  was  any  thing  but  a  stronger  to  him.  I 
had  the  boy  in  my  arms,  when  a  woman  who  attended  him  came  to- 
fetch  him  that  she  might  make  him  more  fit  to  be  seen  by  the  lady,  as 
she  said. 

"  I  was  anxious  to  know  how  the  boy  was  treated,  and  I  detained  this 
wo*man  in  conversation  with  me  while  my  father  dozed  over  the  tear. 
table.  '  ^ 

"  She  was  a  pale-faced,  sandy-haired  womam^al  nd-forty  ; 

and  she  seemed  very  glad  to  get  the  chance  of  talking  to  me  as  long  as 
I  pleased  to  allow  her;  She  soon  left  oiT  talking  of  the  boy,  however,  to 
tell  me  her  own  troubles.  She  was  in  very  great  trouble,  she  told  me. 
Her  eldest  daughter  had  been  obliged  to  leave  her  situation  from  ill- 
health;  in  fact,  the  doctor  said  the  girl  was  in  a  decline;  and  it  was  a 
hard  thing  for  a  poor  widow  who  had  seen  better  days  to  have  a  sick 
daughter  to  support,  as  well  as  a  family  of  young  children. 

"  I  let  the  woman  run  on  for  a  long  time  in  this  manner,  telling  me 
the  girl's  ailment9,  and  the  girl's  age,  and  the  girl's -doctor's  stuff,  and 
piety,  and  sufferings,  and  a  great  deal  more.  But  I  neither^  listened  to 
her  nor  heeded  her.  I  heard  her,  but  only  in  a  far-away  manner,  as  I 
heard  the  traffic  in  the  street,  or  the  ripple  of  the  stream  at  the  bottom 
•  of  it.  What  were  this  woman's  troubles  to  me  ?  I  had  miseries  of  my 
own,  and  worse  miseries  than  her  coarse  nature  could  ever  have  to  en- 
dure. These  sort  of  people  always  had  sick  husbands  or  'sick  children, 
and  expected  to  be  helped  in  their  illnesses  by  the  rich.  It  was  nothing 
out  of  the  common.  I  was  thinking  this,  and  I  was  just  going  to  dis- 
miss the  woman  with  a  sovereign  for  her  sick  daughter,  when  an  idea 
flashed  upon  me  with  such  painful  suddenness  that  it  sent  the  blood 
surging  up  to  my  brain,  and  set  my  heart  beating,' as  it  only  beats  when 
'  I  am  mad. 

"I  asked  the  woman  her  name.  She  was  a  Mrs.  Plowson,  and  she 
kept  a  small  general  shop,  she  said,  and  only  ran  in  now^and  then  to  look 
afrer  Georgey,  and  to  see  that  the  little  maid-of-all-work  took  care  of 
him.  Her  daughter's  name  was  Matilda.  I  asked  her  several  questions 
about  this  girl  Matilda,  and  I  ascertained  that  she  was  four-and-twenty, 
that  she  had  always  be' :»  consumptive,  and  that  she  was  now^as  the 
doctor  said,  going  off  in  a  rapid  decline.  He  had  declared  that  she 
could  not  last  much  more  than  a  fortnight. 

"  It  was  in  three  weeks  that  the  ship  that  carried  George  Talboys  was 
expected  to  anchor  in  the  Mersey. 

"  I  need  not  dwell  much  upon  this  business.  I  visited  the  sick  girl. 
She  was  fair  and  slender.  Her  description,  carelessly  given,  might  tally 
nearly  enough  with  my  own,  though  she  bore  no  shadow  of  resemblance 
to  me,  except  in  these  two  particulars.  I  was  received  by  the  girl  as  a 
rich  lady  who  wished  to  do  her  a  service.  I  bought  the  mother,  who 
was  poor  and  greedy,' and  who  for  a  gift  of  money,  more  money  than 
she  had  ever  before  received,  consented  to  submit  to  any  thing  I  wished. 


LADY  AUDLEY't  SECRET.  243 

Upon  the  second  day  after  ray  introduction  to  this  Mrs.  Plowson,  my 
father  went  over  to  Ventnor,  and  hired  lodgings  for  his  invalid  daughter 
and  her  little  boy.  Early  the  next  morning  he  carried  over  the  dying 
girj  and  Georgey,  who  had  been  bribed  to  call  her  '.iriammaJ  She  en- 
tered the  house  as  Mrs.  Talboys  ;  she  was  attended  by  a  Ventnor  med- 
ical man  as  Mrs.  Talboys ;  she  died,  and  her  death  aud  burial  were  reg- 
istered in  that  name. 

The  advertisement  was  inserted  in' the  Times,  and  upon  the  second 
day  after*  its  insertion. George  Talboys  visited  Ventnor,  aud  ordered  the( 
tombstone  which  at  this  hour  records  the  death  of  his  "wife  Helen  Tal 
boys." 

Sir  Michael  Audley  rose  slowh  .  and  with  a  stiff',  constrained  action, 
as  if  every  physical  sense  had  been  benumbed  by  that  one  sense  of  mis- 
ery. 

"I  cannot  hear  any  more,"  he  said,  in  a  hoarse  whisper ;  "  if  there  is 
anything  more  to  be  told  I  cannot  hear  it.  Robert,  it  is  you  who  have 
brought  about  this  discovery,  as  I  understand.  I  want  to*  know  nothing 
more.  "Will  you  take  upon  yourself  the  duty  of  providing  for  the  safe- 
ty and  comfort  of  this  lady  whom  I  have  thought  my  wife  ?  I  need  not 
as)c  you  to  remember  in  all  you  do,  that  I  have  loved  her  very  dearlv 
and  truly.  I  cannot  say  farewell  to  her.  I  will  not  say  it  until  I  can 
think  of  her  without  bitterness — until  I  can  pity  her,  as  I  now  pray  that 
God  may  pity  her  this  night."  ' 

Sir  Michael  walked  slowly  from  the  room.  He  did  not  trust  himself 
to  look  at  that  crouching  figure.  He  did  not  wish,- to  see  the  creature 
whom  he  had  cherished.  He  went  straight  to  his  dressing-room,  rang 
for  his  valet,  and  ordered  him  to  pack  a  portmanteau,  and  make  all  nec- 
essary arrangements  for  accompanying  his  master  by  the  last  up-train. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE  HUSH  THAT  SUCCEEDS  THE  TEMPEST. 

•Robert  Audley  followed  his  uncle  into  the  vestibule  after  Sir  Mich- 
ael had  .spoken  those  few  quiet  words  which  sounded  the  death-knell  of 
his  hope  and  love.  Heaven  knows  how  much  the  young  man  had  fear- 
ed  the  coming  of  this  day.  It  had  come  ;  and  though  there  had  been  no 
great  outburst  of  despair,  no  whirlwind  of  stormy  grief,  no  loud  tempest 
of  anguish  and  tears,  Robert  took  po  comforting  thought  from  the  unnat- 
ural stillness.  He  knew  enough  tb  know  that  Sir  Michael  Audley  went 
away  with  the  barbed  arrow,  which  his  nephew's  haud  had  sent  home  to 
its  aim,  rankling  in  his  tortured  heart ;  he  know  that   this  storage  and 


244  ;         iiADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET.    ■ 

icy  calm  was  the  first  numbness  of  a  heart  stricken  by,  a  grief  so  unex- 
pected as  for  a  time  to  be  rendered  almost  incomprehensible  by  a  blank 
stupor  of  astonishment ;  he  knew  that  wheii  this  dull  quiet  had  passed  ' 
away,  when  little  by  little,  and  one  by  one,  each  horrible  feature  of  the", 
sufferer's  sorrow  became  first  dimly  apparent  and  then  terribly  familiar- 
to  him,  the  storm  would  burst  in  fatal  fury^  and  tempests  of  tears  and  ; 
cruel  thunder-claps  of  agony  would  rend  that  generous  heart. 

Robert  had  heard  of  cases  in  which  men  of  his  uncle's  age  had  borne 
some  great  grief,  as  Sir  Michael  had  borne  this,  with  a  strange  quiet ; 
and  had  gone  away  from  those  who  would  have  comforted  them,  and 
.whose  anxieties  have  been  relieved  by  this  patient  stillness,  to  fall  down 
upon  the  ground  and  die  under  the  blow  which  at  first  had  only  stunned 
them.  He  remembered  cases  in  which  paralysis  and  apoplexy  had 
stricken  men  as  strong  as  his  uncle  in  the  first  hour  of  the  horrible  afflic- 
tion; and  he  lingered  in  the  lamp-lit  vestibule,  wondering  whether  it 
was  not  his  duty  to  be  with  Sir  Michael — to  be  near  him,  in  case  of  any 
emergency,  and  to  accompany  him  wherever  he  went. 

Yet  would  it  be  wise  to  force  himself  upon  that  gray-headed  sufferer 
in  this  cruel  hour,  in  which  he  had  been  awakened  from  the  one  delusion 
of  a  blameless  life  to  discover  that  he  had  been  the  dupe  of  a  false  face, 
and  the  fool  of  a  nature  which  was  too  coldly  mercenary,  too  cruelly 
heartless,  to  be  sensible  of  its  own  infamy  % 

"  No,"  thought  Robert  A_udley,  "I  will  not  intrude  upon  the  anguish  of 
this  wounded  heart.  There  is  humiliation  mingled  with  this  bitter  grief. 
It  is  better  that  he  should  fight  the  battle  alone.  I  have  done  wjiat  I 
believe  to  have  been  my  solemn  duty,  yet  I  should  scarcely  wonder  if 
I  had  rendered  myself  forever  hateful  to  him.  It  is  better  he  should 
fight  the  battle  alone.  I  can  do  nothing  to  make  the  strife  less  terrible. 
Better  that  it  should  be  fought  alone." 

While  the  young  man  stood  with  his  hand  upon  the  library  door,  still 
half  doubtful  whether  he  should  follow  his  uncle  or  re-enter  the  room  in 
which  he  had  left  that  more  wretched  creature,  whom  it  had  been  his 
business  to  unmask,  Alicia  Audley  opened  the  dining-room  door,  and 
revealed  to  him  the  oldfashioned  oak-panelled  apartment,  the  long  table 
covered  with  snowy  damask,  and  bright  with  a  cheerful  glitter  of  glass 
and  silver. 

"Is  papa  coming  to  dinner  ?"  asked  Miss  Audley.  "  I'm  so  hungry  ; 
and  poor  Tomlins  has  sent  up  three  times  to  say  the  fish  will  be  spoiled. 
It  must  be  reduced  to  a  species  of  isinglass  soup,  by  this  time,  I  should 
think,"  added  the  young  lady,  as  she  came  out  into  the  vestibule  with 
the  Times  newspaper  in  her  hand. 

She  had  been  sitting  by  the  fire  reading  the  paper,  and  waiting  for 
her  seniors  to  join  her  at  the  dinner-table. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Mr.  Robert  Audley,"  she  remarked,  indifferently. 
"  You  dine  with  us,  of  course.  .  Pray  go  and  find  papa.  It  must  be  near- 
ly eight  o'clock,  and  we  are  supposed  to  dine  at  six." 

Mr.  Audley  answered  his  cousin  rather  sternly.  Her  frivolous  manner 
jarred  upon  him,  and  he  forgot  in  his  irrational  displeasure  that  Miss 


LADY   DUDLEY'S  SECRET  245 

Audley  hat}  known  nothing  of  the  terrible  drama  which  had  been  so 
long  enacting  under  her  very  nose. 

"  Your  papa  has  just  endured  a  very  great  grief,  Alicia,"  the  young 
man  said,  gravely. 

The  girl's  arch,  laughing  face  changed  in  a  moment  to  a  tenderly 
earnest  look  of  sorrow  and  anxiety.  Alicia  Audley  loved  her  father 
very  dearly. 

"A  grief !"  she  exclaimed ;  "papa  grieved!  Oh!  Robert,  what  has 
happened!" 

"I  can  tell  you  nothing  yet,  Alicia,"  Robert  answered,  in  a  low  voice. 

He  took  his  cousin  by  the;  wrist,  and  drew  her  into  the  dining-room- 
as  he  spoke.     He  closed  the  door  carefully  behind  him  before  he  con- 
tinued : — 

"Alicia,  can  I  trust  you  ?"  he  asked,  earnestly. 

"  Trust  me  to  do  what  ?" 

"  To  be  a  comfort  ahd  a  fr-iend  to  your  poor  father  under  a  very  heavy 
affliction." 

"  Yes  !"  cried  Alicia,  passionately.  "  How  can  you  ask  me  such  a 
question  1  Do  you  think  there  is  anything  I  would  not  do  to  lighten 
any  sorrow  of  my  father's  ?  Do  you  think  there  is  anything  I  would 
not  suffer  if  my  sufferings  could  lighten  his?" 

The  rushing  tears  rose  to  Miss  Audley's  bright  gray  eyes  as  she  spoke. 

"Oh,  Robert!  Robert!  could  you  think  so  badly  of  me  as  to  think 
that  I  would  not  try  to  be  a  comfort  to  my  father  in  his  grief?"  she 
said,  reproachfully. 

"No,  no,  my  dear,"  answered  the  young  man,  quietly;  "I  never 
doubted  your  affection,  I  only  doubted  your  discretion.  May  I  rely 
upon  that  ?" 

"  You  may,  Robert,"  said  Alicia,  resolutely. 

"  Very  well,  then,  my  dear  girl,  I  will  trust  you.  Your  father  is 
.going  to  leave  the  Court,  for  a  time  at  least.  The  grief  wh^ch  he  has 
just  "endured — a  sudden  and  unlooked  for  sorrow,  remember — has  no 
doubt  made  this  place  hateful  to  him.  He  is  going  away  ;  but  he  must 
not  go  alone,  must  he,  Alicia  ?" 

"Alone !  no  !  no  !     But  I  suppose  my  lady " 

"  Lady  Audley  will  not  go  with  him,"  said  Robert,  gravely ;  "he  is 
about  to  separate  himself  from  her." 

"  For  a  time  ?" 

"  No,  forever.'" 

"  Separate  himself  from  her  forever !"  exclaimed  Alicia.     "  Then  this 

grief " 

.   "  Is  connected  with  Lady  Audley.     Lady  Audley  is  the  cause  of  your 
father's  sorrow." 

Alicia's  face,  which  had  been  pale  before,  flushed  crimson.     Sorrow, 

of  which  my  lady  was  the  cause — a  sorrow  which  was  to  separate  Sir 

Michael  forever  from   his  young  wife !     There  had  been  no  quarrel  be- 

,  them — there  had  never  been  anything  but  harmony  and  sunshine 

between  Lady  Audley  and  her  generous  husband.     This  sorrow  must 

\ 


246  i.ADV.  A.tJDL£Y'S' SECRET.   ■- 

surely  then  have  arisen  from  some  sudden  discovery,  it  was,  no  doubt, 
a  sorrow  associated  with  disgrace.  Robert  Audley  understood  the 
meaning  of  that  vivid  blush. 

"You  will  offer  to  accompany  your  father  wherever  he  may  choose  to- 
go  Alicia,"  he  said.  "You  are  his' natural  comforter  at  such  a  time  as  I 
this,  but  you  will  best  befriend  him  in  thfe  hour  of  trial  by  avoiding  all . 
intrusion  upon  his  grief.  Your  very  ignorance  of  the  particulars  of  that 
grief  will  be  a  security  for  yuur  discretion..  Say  nothing  to  your  father 
that  you  might  not  have  said  to  him  two  years  ago,  before  he  married 
a  second  wife.  Try  and  be  to  him  what  you  were  before  the  woman  in 
"yonder  room  came  between  you  and  your4ittner's  love.''' 

"I  will,"  murmured  Alicia,  "I  will.'" 

"You  will  naturally  avoid  all  mention  of  Lady  Audley's  name.  If 
your  father  is  often  silent,  be.  patient;  if  it  sometimes  seems  to  you 
that  the.shadow  of  this  great  sorrow' will  never  pass  away  from  his  life, 
be  patient  still ;  and  remember  that  there  can  be  no  better  hope  of  a 
cure  for  his  grief  than  the  hope  that  his  daughter's  devotion  may  lead 
him  to  remember  there  is  one  woman  upon  this  earth  who  will  love  him 
truly  and  purely  until  the  last." 

"  Yes,  yes,  Robert,  dear  cousin,  I  will  remember." 

Mr.  Audley,  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  been  a  schoolboy,  took  his 
cousin  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  broad  forehead. 

"  My  dear  Alicia,"  he  said,  "  do  this,  and  you  will  make  me  happy. 
I  have  been  in  soma  measure  the  means  of  bringing  this  sorrow  upon 
vour  father.  Let  me  hope  that  it  is  not  an  enduring  one.  '  Try  and  re- 
store my  uncle  to  happiness,  Alicia,'  and  I  will  love  you  more  dearly 
than  brother  ever  loved'  a  noble-hearted  sister ;  and  a  brotherly  affection 
may.be  worth  having,  perhaps,  after  all,  rny^  dear,  though  it  is  very 
different  to  poor  Sir  Harry's  enthuastic  worship." 

Alicia's  head  was  bent  and  her  face  hidden  from  her  cousin  while  he 
spoke  but  she  lifted  her  head  when  he  had  finished,  and  looked  him  full 
inthe'face  with  a  smile  that  was' only  the  brighter  for  her  eyes  being 

filled  with  tears.  •   ■     ■ 

"  You  are  a  good  (ellow,  Bob,"  she  said  ;  "and  I've  been  very  foolish 
and  wicked  to  feel  angry  with  you  because " 

The  young  lady  stopped  suddenly. 

"  Because  what,  my  dear1?"  asked  Mr.  Audley. 

"  Because  I'm  silly,  cousin  Rob  • : ,"  Alicia  said  quickly  ;  "never  mind 
that,  Bob,  I'll  do  all  you  wish,  and  it  shall  not  be  my  fault  if  my  dearest 
father  doesn't  forget  his  troubles  before  long.  Pd  go  to  the  end  of  the 
world  with  him,  poor  darling,  if  I  thought  there  was,  any  comfort  to  be 
found  for  him  in  the  journey.  I'll  go  and  get  ready  directly.  Do  you 
think  papa  will  go  to-night  ?."  , 

"Yes,  my  dear;  I  don't  think  Sir  Michael  will  rest  another  night  un- 
der this  roof  yet  awhile." 

"The  mail  goes  at  twenty  minutes  past  nine,'  said  Alicia;  '  we  must 
leave  the  house  in  an  hour  if  we  are  to  travel  by  it.  I  shall  see  you 
again  before  we  go  Robert." 


uADY  AUDLEY'S  8E<  7    • 

"  Yes,. dear." 

Miss  Atidlsy'ran  off  to  her  room  to  summon  her  maid,  and  make 

all  necessary'  preparations  for  the  sud4en  journey,  of  whose  ultimate' 

it.  quite  ignonint.      ■  •  '        • 

She  went  heart  and  soul  into  the  parrying  out  of  the  duty  which   Ro- 
bert had  dictated  to  her.     She  assisted  in  the  packing  of  her  portman- 
.  and  hopelessly  bewildered  her  maid  by  stuffing  silk  dresses  into 
her  bonnet-boxes   and   satin  shoes  into  her  dressing-case,  '  She  ror 
about,  her  rooms,   gathering  together   drawing  materials,   musj 

.  jewelry,  and^  perfume  bottles,  very   mini: 
she  might  havrf.dQiieJ^l  she  been  about  to  sail  for  some  savage  country 
devoi<  sources.     She  was  thinking  all  the  time  of 

father's  unknown  'rrief,  and  perhaps  a  little  "of  the  serious  face 
nest  voice  which  had  that  night  revealed  her  cousin  Robert  to  her  in  a 
new  character.  .  >•.'♦'. 

Mr.  Audley  went  up-stairs  after  his  cousin,  and  found  his  waj 
Michael's  dressing-room.     He  knocked  at  the  door  and  listened,  heaven 
knows  how  anxiously,  for  the  expected  answer.     Thero  was  a  mom 
pause,'  during  which  the  young  man's  heart  beat  lctud  and  fast,  and 
the  door  was  opened  by  the  baronet  himself.     Robert  saw  that  his  un- 
cle's valet  was' already  hard  at  work  preparing  for  his  master's  hurried 
journey. 

Sir  Michael  came  out  into  the  corridor. 

"  Have  you  any  thing  more  to  say  to  me,  Robert1?"  he  aaked,  quietly. 

"I  only  came  to  ascertain  if  I  could  assist  in  any  of  your  arrange- 
ments.    You  go  to  London  by  the  mail  V 

"  Yes." 

"  Have  you  any  idea  of  where  you  will  stay1?" 

"Yes,  I  shall  stop  at  the  Clarendon  ;  I  am  known  there.  Is  that  i 
you  have  to  say?" 

"  Yes  ;  except  that  Alicia  will  accompany  you?" 

"Alicia!" 

"She  could  not  very  well  stay  here,  you  know,  just  now.  It  would 
be  best  for  her  to  leave  the  Court  until " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  understand,"  interrupted  the  baronet ;  "  but  is  there  no- 
where else  that  she  could  go — must  she  be  with  me  ?" 

"She  could  go  nowhere  else  so  immediately,  and  she  would  not  In- 
happy  anywhere  else." 

"  Let  her  come,  then,"  said  Sir  Michael,  •"  let  her  come." 

He  spoke  in  a  strange,  subdued  voice,  and  with  an  apparent  effort,  as 
if  it  were  painful  to  him  to  have  to  speak  at  all  :  as  if  all  this  ordinary 
business  of  life  were  a  cruel  torture  to  him,  and  jarred  so  much  upon 
his  grief  as  to  be  almost  worse  to  bear  than  that  grief  itself. 

"  Very  well,  my  dear  uncle,  then  all  is  arranged  ;  Alicia  will  be  ready 
to  start  at  nine  o'clock." 

•    "  Very  good,  very  good,"  muttered  the  baronet }  "  let  her  come  if  she 
pleases,  poor  child,  let  her  co- 
lic sighed  heavily  as  he  spoke  in  that  half-pit}  ing  tone  of  hia  dan 


248  LADY   DUDLEY'S  SECRET 

ter.  He  was  thinking  how  comparatively  indifferent  he  had  been  to- 
ward that  only. child  for  the  sake  of  the  woman  now  shut  in  the  'fire-lit' 
Toom  below. 

"  I  shall  see  you  again  before  you  go,  sir,"  said  Robert ;  c:  I  will  leave 
you  till  then." 

"  Stay  !"  said  Sir  Michael,  suddenly  ;  "  have  you  told  Alicia  ?" 

"  I  have  told  her  nothing,  except  that  you  are  about  to  leave  the 
Court  for  some  time." 

"You  are  very  good,  my  boy,  you  are  very  good,"  the  baronet  mur- 
mured in  a  broken  voice. 

He  stretched  out  his  hand.  His  nephew  took  it  in  both  his  own,  and 
pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Oh,  sir  !  how  can  I  ever  forgive  myself?"  he  said ;  "  how  can  I  ever 
cease  to  hate  myself  for  having  brought  this  grief  upon  you  ?" 

"No,  no,  Robert,  you  did  right-— you  did  right ;  I  wish  that  God  had 
been  so  merciful  to  me  as  to  take  my  miserable  life  before  this  night ; 
but  you  did  right." 

"  Sir  Michael  re-entered  his  dressing-room,  and  Robert  slowly  return- 
ed to  the  vestibule.  He  paused  upon  the  threshold  of  that  chamber  in 
which- he  had  left  Lucy — Lady  Audley,  otherwise  Helen  Talboys,  the  wife 
of  his  lost  friend. 

She  was  lying  upon  the  floor,  upon  the  very  spot  in  which  she  had 
crouched  at  her  husband's  feet  telling  her  guilty  story.  Whether  she 
was  in  a  swoon,  or  whether  she  lay  there  in  the  utter  helplessnes  of  her 
misery,  Robert  scarcely  cased  to  know.  He  went  out  into  the  vesti- 
bule, and  sent  one  of  the  servants  to  look  for  her  maid,  the  smart,  be- 
ribboned  damsel  who  was  loud  in  wonder  and  consternation  at  the  sight  ' 
of  her  mistress. 

"  Lady  Audley  is  very  ill,"  he  said  ;  "  take  her  to  her  room  and  see 
that  she  does  not  leave  it  to-night.  You  will  be  good  enough  to  remain 
near  her,  but  do  not  either  talk  to  her  or  suffer  her  to  excite  herself  by 
talking." 

My  lady  had  not  fainted;  she  allowed  the  girl  to  assist- her,  and  rose 
from  the  ground  upon  which  she  had  grovelled.  Her  golden  hair  fell  in 
loose,  dishevelled  masses  about  her  ivory  throat  and  shoulders,  her  face 
and  lips  were  colorless,  her  eyes  terrible  in  their  unnatural  light. 
'  "  Take  me  away,"  she  said,  "  and  let  me  sleep  !  Let  me  sleep,  for 
my  brain  is  on  fire !" 

As  she  was  leaving  the  room  with  her  maid,  she  turned  and  looked  at 
Robert.     "  Is  Sir  Michael  gone  ?"  she  asked. 

"  He  will  leave  in  half  an  hour." 

"  There  were  no  lives  lost  in  the  fire  at  Mount  Stanning  T' 

«  None." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that."    ' 

"  The  landlord  of  the  house,  Marks,  was  very  terribly  burned,  and  lies 
in  a  precarious  state  at  his  mother's  cottage  ;  but  he  may  recover." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that — I  am  glad  no  life  was  lost.  Good-night,  Mr. 
Audley." 


i>V   A I  ■DLEY'S  SECRET.  249 

"I  shall. ask  to  see  you  for  half  an  hour's  conversation  in  the  course 
of  t.o-morro\\r,  my  lady  ?" 

"  Whenever  you  please.     Good-night." 

"  Good-night." 

She  went  away  quietly  leaning  upon  her  maid's  shoulder,  and  leaving 
.Robert  with  a  sense  of  strange  bewilderment  that  was  very  painful  to 
him. 

He  sat  down  by  the  broad  hearth  upon   which  the  red  embers  were  • 
fading,  and  wondered  at  the  change  in  that  old  house,  which,  until  the  day 
of  his  friend's  disappearance,  had  been  so  pleasant.' a  home  for  all  who 
sheltered  beneath  its  hospitable  roof.     He  sat  brooding  over  thatk» 
late  hearth,  and  trying  to  decide  upon  what  must  be  done  in  thissuddjjW 
crisis.     He  sat  helpless  and  ;  to  determine  upon  any  coins 

action,  lost  in  a  dull  reverie,  from  which  he  v>  ed  by  the  sound  of 

carriage  wheels  driving  up  to  the  little,  turret  entrance,: 

The  clock  in  the  vestibule  struck  nine  as  Robert  opened   the  library 
door.     Alicia  had  just  descended  the  stairs  with  her  maid  ;  a  rosy-i 
country  girl. 

"  Good-by,  Robert,"  said  Miss  Audley,  holding  out  her  'hand  to  her 
cousin ;  "good-by,  and  God  bless  you  !  You  may  trust  me  to  take  care 
of  papa." 

"  I  am'  sure  I  may.     God  bless  you,  my  dear." 

For  the  second  time  that  night  Robert  Audley  pressed  his  lips  to  his 
cousin's  candid  forehead,  and  for  the  second  time  the  embrace  was  of  a 
brotherly  or  paternal  character,  rather  than  the  rapturous  proceeding 
which  it  would  have  been  had  Sir  Harry  Towers,  been  the  privileged 
performer. 

It  was  five  minutes  past  nine  when  Sir  Michael  came  down-stairs,  fol- 
lowed by  his  valet,  grave  and  gray-haired  like  himself.  The  baronet 
was  pale,  but  calm  and  self-possessed.  The  hand  which  he  gave  to  his 
nephew  was  as  cold  as  ice,  but  it  was  with  a  steady  voice  that  he  bade 
the  young  man  good-by. 

"  I  leave  all  in  your  hands,  Robert,"  he  said,  as  he  turned  to  leave  tho 
house  in  which  he  had  lived  so  long.  "  I  may  not  have  heard  the  end,  but 
1  have  heard  enough.     Heaver  1  have  no  need  to  hear  more.     1 

leave  all  to  you,  but  you  will  not  be  cruel — you   will  remember  how 
much  I  loved " 

His  voice  broke  huskily  before  he  could  finish  the  sentei 

"  I  will  remember  you  in  every  thing,  suy '  the  young  man  answc 
"  I  will  do  every  thing  for  the  best." 

A  treacherous  mist  of  tears  blinded  him  and  shut  out  bis  uncle's  i 
and  in  another  minute  the  carriage  had  driven  away,  and  Robert  Au< 
sat  alone  in  the  dark  library,  where  only  one  red  spark  glowed  among 
the  pale  gray  ashes.     He  sat  alone,  trying  to  think  what  h  i  do, 

and  with  the  awful  responsibility  of  a  wicked  woman's  |  i  his 

shoulders. 

" Good  heavens !"  he  thought;  "tjurely  this  n  ^nt 

upon  the  purposeless,  vacillating  life  I  led  up  to  the  seventh  di 


2b 0-  <        ifW*  iudley*  secret. 

September.     Surely  th  responsibility  has-%eeni  >n  me 

iu  o,  led  Provi 

that  a. man  Cannot  own  life,     lie  cannot  say,  'I  will  take 

(  lightly, ^n d  keep  out  of  the  .way  of. .the  wretched,  mist: 

feinergetic  creatures,  who  fight  so- heartily  in. the  great  battie.5  .  JJe  can- 
not say,  'I  will  stop  in'the  tents  while  the  strife  is  fought,  and   latig-hJRF, 
the  fools  who  are  trampled  down   in   the  useless  struggle.'     lie  cannot 
He  can  only  do,  humbl;  u fully,  that  which  the  Maker 

mt    '.'xv-fio  created  him  has  appointed  for  hira  it' he  has  a  fight,. 

it   faithfully;  but  woe  b 

;.e  hides  in 
'the  tocsin  summon  ai,v!" 

:  candles  into  the  library  and  relightedthe 
*  fire.  lut. Robert  Audley  did  not  stir  from  his  seat  by  the  hearth.     He 

as,  he  had  often  safcih  his  chambers  in  Fig-tree  court,  with  his  elbows 
•esting  upon  the  arms  of  his  chair,  and  his  chin  upon  his  hand. 
But  he  Ijfied  his  head  as  the  servant  was  about  to  leave  the'roo.m. 
"  Can  I  send  a  telegram  from  here  to  London?"  he  asked. 
"  It  can  be  sent  from  Brentwood,  sir— ^not  from  here."- 
Mr.  Audley  looked  at  his  watch  thoughtfully. 

"One  of  the  men*  can  ride  over  to  Brentwood,  sir,  if  you  wish  any 
message  to  be  sent." 

"  I  do  wish  to  send  a  message  ;  will  you  manage  it  for  me,  Richards  ?" 
".Certainly,  sir." 

"  You  can  wait,  then,  while  I  write  the  message?" 
"  Yes,  sir."  * 

The  man  j  brought  writing  materials  from  one  of  the  side-tables,  and 
placed  them  before  Mr.  Audley. 

Kobert  dipped  a  pen  in  the  ink,  and  stared  thoughtfully  at  one  of  the 
candles  for  a  few  moments  before  he  began  to  write. 
The  message  ran  thus  ■ — 

"From  Robert  Audley,  of  Audley  Court,  Essex,  to  Francis  Wilming- 
ton, of  Paper-buildings,  Temple. 
'"Dear  Wilmington — If  you  know  any  physician  experienced  in  cases 
f  mania,  and  to  be  trusted  with  a  secret,  be  so  good  as  to  send  me  his 
address  by  telegraph." 

Mr.  Audley  sealed  this  document  in  a  stout  envelope,  and  handed  it 
to  the  man,  with  a  sovereign. 

"  You  will  see  that  this  is  given  to  a  trustworthy  person,  Richards," 
he  said,  "and  let  the  man  wait  at  the  station  for  the  return  message. 
He  ought  to  get  it  in  an  hour  and  a  half." 

Mr.  Richards,  who  had  known  Robert.  Audley  in  jackets  and  turn- 
down collars,  departed  to  execute  his  commission.  Heaven  forbid  that 
we  should  follow  him  into  the  comfortable  servants'  hall  at  the  Court, 
where  the  household  sat  round  the  blazing  fire,  discussing  in  utter  be- 
wilderment the  events  of  the  day. 


ii3  I  -  fie  truth  'than  tl 

wort'. 
in  which  a  guilt  i  had  knelt  at  their 

•  sinful  lit*'?     They  only  knew  that  which  $ir 
told  them   of  this  sudden   jounJey.     Iiow  1 
,  and  spoke  in 

might  have  knocked   him. —  M 
down  with  a  feather,    if  yen   had   been  minded 
aid  of*so  foe  . .'     Pit.  • 

The  wist 
ceived  uro^rh  Mr.  Robert — 

.to  connect  the  ,,f 

some  near  and 

family  in  their  endeavor  i 

fall  in  the  funds,  or  of  the  failure 
the  greater  part  of  the  baronet'9  m 
leaning  was   towards   the   failure   of  a  ban' 
assembly  seemed  to  take  a  dismal  and 

though  such  a  supposition  involved  their  own  ruin  in  the  general  des- 
truction of  that  liberal  houseli 

Robert  sat  by  the  dreary  hearth,  which  seemed  dreary  even  now  when 
the  blaze  of  a  great  wood-fire  roared   in  the'wide  chimney,  atjd 
to  the  low  wail  of  the  March  wind  moaning  round  the  house  and 
the  shivering  ivy  from  the  walls  it  sheltered.     He  was  tired  i 
out,  for  remember  that  he  had  been  awakened  from  his  sleep  at  two 
o'clock  that  morning  by  the  hot  breath  of  blazing  timber  and  the  sharp 
crackling  of  burning  wood-work.     But  for  his  presence  of  mind  and  i 
decision,  Mr.  Luke  Marks  would  have  died  a  dreadful  death.     He  still 
bore  the  traces  of  the  night's  peril,   for  the  dark  hair  had  be. 
upon  .one  side  of  his  forehead,  and  his  left  hai  I  and  infla 

from  the  effect  of  the  scorching  atmosphere  out  of  which  h 
the  landlord  of  the  Castle  Inn.     He  was  thorough!;  d  with  fat 

and  excitement,  and  he  fell   into  a  heavy  sleep  in  hi    i 
the   bright  fye,   from  which  nly  awakened 

Mr.  Richards  with  the  r< » 

This  return  message  was  very  I 

"Dear  Audley.     Always  glad  to  oblige.     Alwyn  D., 

12  Saville  Row.     Safe."  " 

This,  with  names  and  addr  fc'fcoi 

"I  shall  want  another 

;vlr.  Audi 
id  if  the  man  would  rid 
'■reign  for  his  ti 
red. 
"Thank  you,  ^ir— not  ni 
sir,"  he  murmured.     "At  wh  it  hou 


252  LAJ)Y    AUDLEY'S  SJiCttET.1 

Mr.  Audley  might  wish  the  man  to  go  as  early  as  he  could,  so  it  was 
decided  that  he  should  go  at  six. 

"My  room  is  ready, I  suppose,  Richards?1'  said  Robert. 

"Yes,  sir — your  old  room." 
.     "  Very  good.     I  shall  go  to  bed  at  once.     Bring  me  a  glass  of  brandy 
and  water  as  hot  as  you  can  make  it,  and  wait  for  the  telegram." 
'     This  second  message  was  only  a  very  earnest  request  to  Doctor  Mos- 
«rave  to  pay  an  immediate  visit  to  Audley  Court  on  a  matter  of  serious 
moment. 

Having  written  this  message,  Mr.  Audley  .felt  that  he  had  done  all 
that  he  could  do.  He  drank  his  brandy  and  water.  He  had  actual  need 
of  the  diluted  alcohol,  for  he  had  been  chilled  to  the  bone  by  his  adven- 
tures during  the. fire.  He  slowly  sipped  the  pale  golden  liquid  and 
thought  of  Clara  Talboys,  of  that  earnest  girl  whose  brother's  memory 
was  now  avenged,  whose  brother's- destroyer  was  humiliated  in  the  dust. 
Had  she  heard  of  the~nre  at  the  Castle  Inn  %  How  could  she  have  done 
otherwise  than  hear  of  it  in  such  a  place  as  Mount  Stanning?  But  had 
she  heard  that  he  had  been  in  danger,  and  that  he  had  distinguished  him- 
self by  the  rescue  of  a  drunken  boor  1  I  fear  that,  even  sitting  by  that 
desolate  hearth,  and  beneath  the  roof  whose  noble  owner  was  an  exile 
from  his  own  house,  Robert  Audley  was  weak  enough  to  think  of  these 
things — weak  enough  to  let  his  fancy  wander  away  to  the  dismal  fir-trees 
under  the  cold  February  sky,  and  the  dark-brown  eyes  that  were  so  like 
the  eyes  of  his  lost  friend. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

y  • 

DR.  MOSGRAVE'S   ADVICE. 

My  lady  slept.  Through  that  long  winter  night  she  slept  soundly* 
Criminals  have  often  so  slept  their  last  sleep  upon  earth;  and  have  been 
found  in  the  gray  morning  slumbering  peacefully,  by  the  jailer  who  came 
to  wake  them. 

The  game  had  been  played  and  lost.  I  do  not  think  that  my  lady 
had  thrown  away  a  card,  or  missed  the  making  of  a  trick  which  she  might 
by  any  possibility  have  made ;  but  her  opponent's  hand  had  been  too 
powerful  for  her,  and  he  had  won. 

She  looked  upon  herself  as  a  species  of  state  prisoner,  who  would  have 
to  be  taken  good  care  of.  A  second  Iron  Mask,  who  must  be  provided 
for  in  some  comfortable  place  of  confinement.  She  abandoned  herself 
to  a  dull  indifference.  She  had  lived  a  hundred  lives  within  the  space 
of  the  last  few  days  of  her  existence,  and  she  had  worn  out  her  capacity 
for  suffering — for  a  time  at  least. 


LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET  253 

She  ate  her  breakfast,  and  took  ber  morning  bath,  and  emerged,  with 
perfumed  hair  and  in   the  most  exquisitely/careless  of  morning  toilets,.; 
from  her:  luxurious  dressing-rodm*     She  looked' at  herself  in  the  cheval- 
•  before  she  left  the  room.     A  long  night's  rest  had  brought  back 
the  delicate  rose-tints  of  .her   complexion,   and  the  natural  lustre  of  her 
blue  eyes.     That  unnatural   light 'which  had  burned  so  fearfully  the  day 
before  had  gone,  and  my  lady  smiled  (triumphantly  as  she  contemp 
the  reflection  of  her  beauty.     The  days  were  gone  in  which  hei 
could  have  branded  her  with  white-hot  irons,  and  burned  away  the  Love- 
liness which   had   done  such   mischief.      Whatever  they  did  to  her  they 
must  leave  her  her  beauty,  she  thought.     At  the  worst,  they  were  power- 
less to  rob  her  of  that. 

The  March  day  was  bright  and  sunin  .  with  a  cheerless  sunshine  cer- 
tainly. My 'lady  wrapped  herself  in  an 'Indian  shawl  ;  a  shawl  that  had 
cost  Sir  Michael  a  hundred  guineas.  I  think  she  had  an  idea  that  it 
would  be  well  to  wear  this  costly  garment;  so  that  if  hustled  suddenly 
away,  she  might  carry  at  least  one  of  her  possessions  with  her.  lie- 
member  how  much  she  had  perilled  for  a  fine  house  and  gorgeous  furni- 
ture, for  carriages  and  horses,  jewels  and  laces ;  and  do  not  wonder  if 
she  clung  with  a  desperate  tenacity  to  gauds  and  gewgaws,  in  the  hour 
of  her  despair.  If  she  had  been  Judas,  she  would  have  held  to  her  thirty 
pieces  of  silver  to  the  last  moment  of  her  shameful  life. 

Mr.  Robert  Audley  breakfasted  in  the  library.  He  sat  long  over  his 
solitary  cup  of  tea,  smoking  his  meerschaum  pipe,  and  meditating  darkly 
upon  the  task  that  lay  before  him. 

"  I  will  appeal  to  the  experience  of  this  Dr.  Mosgrave,"  he  thought ; 
"physicians  and  lawyers  arc  the  confessors  of  this  prosaic  nineteenth 
century.  Surely,  he  will  be  able  to  help  me." 
.  The  first  fast  train  from  London  arrived  at  Audley  at  half-past  ten 
o'clock,  and  at  five  minutes  before  eleven,  Richards,  the  grave  servant, 
announced  Dr.  Alwyn  Mosgrave. 

The  physician  from  Savillo  row  was  a  tall  man,  of  about  fifty  years  of 
age.  He  was  thin  and  sallow,  with  lantern  jaws,  and  eyes  ot  a  pale, 
feeble  gray,  that  seemed  as  if  they  had  01  blue,  and  had  faded 

by  the  progress  of  time  to  their  present  neutral  shade.  However  power- 
ful the  science  of  medicine  as  wielded  by  Dr.  Alwyn  Afosgrave,  it  had 
not  been  strong  enough  to  put  flesh  upon  his  bones,  or  brightness  into 
his  face.  He  had  a  strangely  expressionless,  and  yet  strangely  attentive 
countenance.     He  had  the  face  of  a  man  who  had  spent  n  part 

of  his  life  in  listening  to  other  people,  and  who  had  parted  with  his  own 
individuality  and  his  own  passions  at  the  very  outset  of  his  career. 

He  bowed  to  Robert  Audley,  took  the.  opposite  scat  indicated  by 
and  addressed  his  attentive   face  to  the  young  barrister.     R 
that  the  physician's  glance  for  a  moment  lost  its  quiet  look  of  attei 
and  became  earnest  and  searching. 

"He  is   wondering   whether  I  am  til''  patient,''  thought  Mr.  Audley  ; 
_  "and  is  lookin  ;iagnoses  of  madness  in  my  fl 

Dr.  Mosgrave  spoke  as  if  in  answer  to  this  thou 


254  LADS  AtJDLEYVS  SECRET, 

"  It  is  not  about  your  own — health — that  you  wish  to  consult/  me ?" 
he  said,  interrogatively.  ;         . 

"Oh  no!"  ■•■■•'..'. 

Dr.  Mosgrave  looked  at>  his  watch,  a  fifty-guinea  Benson-made  chron- 
ometer, which  _be  carried  loose  in  his  waistcoat  pocket  as  carelessly  as 
if  it  had  been  a  potato. 

"I  need  not  remind  you  that  my  time  is  precious,"  he  said  ;  ';  your 
telegram- informed  me  that  my  serviced  were  required  in  a  case  of — 
danger — as  I  apprehend,  or  I  should  not  be  here  this  morning." 

Robert  Audley  had  sat  looking  gloomily  at  the  yve  wondering  how  he 
'should  begin.,  the  conversation,  and  had  needed  this  reminder  of  the  phy- 
a's  presence/ 

"You  are  very  good,  Dr.  Mftfgrave,"'  he  said,  rousing  himself  by  an 
effort,  ';and  [  th:  .  ■-  you  very  much  for  having  responded  to  my  sum- 
mons. I  am  a  appeal  to  you  upon  a  subject  which  is  more  pain- 
ful to  mo  than  cribe.  I  am  about  to  implore  your  advice 
in  a  most  diiiieult  case,  and  1  trust  almost  blindly  to  your  experience  to 
rescue  me,  and  others  who  are  very  dear  to  me,  from  a  cruel  and  com- 
plicated position." 

The  business-like  attention  in  Dr.  Mosgrave's  face  grew  into  a  look 
of  interest  as  he  listened  to  Robert  Audley. 

"  The  revelation  made  by  the  patient  to  the  physician  is,  I  believe,  as 
sacred  as  the  confession  of  a  penitent  to  his  priest  ?"  Robert  asked, 
gravely. 

"Quite  as  sacred."  • 

"A  solemn  confidence,  to  be  violated  under  no  circumstances  ?" 

"  Most  certainly."' 

Robert  Audley  looked  at  the  fire  again.  How  much  should  he  tell, 
or  how  little,  of  tlie  dark  history  of  his  6ncle's  second  wife.  * 

"I  have  been  given  to  understand,  Dr.  Mosgrave,  that  you  have  de- 
voted nruch  of  your  attention  to  the  treatment  of  insanity." 
•    "Yes,  my  practice  is  almost  confined  to  the  treatment  of  mental 
diseases;'" 

"  Such  being  the  case,  I  think  I  may  venture  to  conclude  that  you 
sometimes  receive  strange,  and  even  terrible,  revelations." 

Dr.  Mosgrave  bowed.  ' 

He  looked  like  a  mam  who  could  have  carried,  safely  locked  in  his 
passionless  breast,  the  secrets  of  a  nation,  and  who  Would  have  suffered 
no  inconvenience  from  the  weight  of  such  a  burden. 

"  The  story  which  I  am  about  to  tell  you  is  not  my  own  story,"  said 
Robert,  after  a  pause;  "you  will  forgive  me,  therefore,  if  I  once  more 
remind  you  that  I.  can  only  reveal  it  upon  the  understanding  that  under 
no  circumstances,  or  upon  no  apparent  justification,  is  that  confidence  to 
be  betrayed." 

Dr.  Mosgrave* bowed  again.     A  little  sternly,  perhaps,  this  time. 

"  I  am  all  attention,  Mr.  Audley,"  he  said,  coldly. 

Robert  Audley  drew  his  chair  nearer  to  that  of  the  physician,  and  in 
a  low  voice  began  the  story  which  my  lady  had  told  upon  her  knees  in 


LADY   ALT)L  ETi  '255 

* 

that  same' chamber  upon  the  .*   Dr.  Mosgrave's  listening 

ilways  toward   the  speaker,  that 

;e  revelation.     He  smiled  oilce,  quiet  snii 

;mc  to  that  part   of  the. story    which  I 
;  but  lie  was  not  surprised:  udley  ended  hi 

■■oint  at  which  .Sir   Michael   Audley  ha  my  lady's 

:i.     He  told  nothing  of  the  disappearance  of  G  4L 

of  the  horrible  suspicions   that  had  grown  out  of  that  disappear 
He  told  nothing  of  the  (ire  at  the  Castle  Inn. 

Dr.  MosgravAshi  gravely  when  Mr.  Audley  .ca; 

end  of  his  story. 
"You  have  nothi 
"  No.     I  do  not  think 
bert  answered,  rather  ev.  * 

"You- would   wish   to  prove   that  ^ 

lonsible  for  hei  dr.  Audi, 

Robert  Audley  stared,  wondering  at  the 

rapidly  arrived  at.  the  young  man 
"Yes,  I  would  rather,  if  possible,  think  her  mad';   I  should  be  glad  to 
find  that  excuse  for  her." 

"And  to  save  the  esclandre  of  a  Chancery  suit,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Aud- 
ley," said  Dr.  Mosgrave. 

Robert  shuddered  as  he  bowed  an  assent  to  this  remark.  It  wn  3  some- 
thing worse  than  a  Chancery  suit  that  he  dreaded,  with  a  horribre  Fear. 
It  was  a  trial  for  murder  that  so  long  had  haunted  his  dreams.  How 
often  he  had  awoke,  in  an  agony  of  shame,  from  a  vision  of  a  crowded 
court-house,  and  his  uncle's  wife  in  a  criminal  dock,  hemmed  in  on  every 
side  by  a  sea  of  eager  faces. 

"I  fear  that  I  shall  not   be  of  any  use  to  you,"  the  physician  said, 
quietly  ;  "  I  will  see  the  lady  if  you  please,  but  I  do  not  believe  thi 
is  mad."'  - 

"  Why  not  ?"      • 

"Because  there  is  no  evidence  of  madness  in  r      thing  that  she*  has 
done.     She' ran  away  from  her  home,  because  her  home  was  not  ft  pi 
ant  one,  and  she  left  it  in  the  hope  of  finding  There  is  no  mad- 

ness in   that.     She  committed   the  crime  of   bigamy,  b<  that 

crime  she  obtained   fortune  and    position.  '     . 

When  she  found  herself  in  a  desperate  position 

perate.     She  employ ed  intelligent  mean's,  and  she  cam  racy 

which  required  coolness  and  deliberation  in  its  execution.     There  is  no 
madness  in  that." 

•  "But  the  taints  of  hceditary  insanity " 

the  third  >-  and  appear  in  th< 

''she  have  any.     M  asmitted  » 

ther  to  daughter.     I  i  houl  1  be  _  la  I  to 
but.  I  do  not  thinlc  there  is  ai 
(old  me.     1  do  not  thin!, 
insanity   in   such  a  '  thing;  tbfl  with 


256  LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET. 

this  lady  is' to  send-  her  back'to  her  first  husband  ;  if  ho  will  have  her.'*1 
'  Robert  started  at  this  sudden  mention  of  his  friend.  ''Her  first  hus- 
band is  dead,"  he  answered,  "at  least,  he  has  been  missing  for  some  time 
— and  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  he  is  dead." 

Dr.  Mosgrave  saw  the  startled  movement,  and  heard  the  embarrass- 
ment in  Robert,  Audley's  voice  as  he  spoke  of  George  Talboys. 

"  TheJady's  first  husband  is,  missing,"  he  said,  with  a  strange  empha- 
sis on  lh£*Vord — "  you  think  that  he  is  dead."  ' 

He  paused  for  a  few  moments,  and  looked  at  the  fire,  as  Robert  had 
looked  before. 

"  Mr.  Audley,"  he  said,  presently,  "  there  must  bo  no  half-confidences 
between  us.     You  have  not  told  me  alllj|>< 

Robert,  looking  up  suddenly,  plainly  expressed  in  his  face  the  surprise 
he  felt  at  these  #ords. 

"  I  should  be  very  poorly  able  to  meet  the  contingencies  df.  my  pro- 
fessional experiencf|"  said  Dr.  Mosgrave,  "if  I  could  not  perceive  where 
confidence  ends  and  reservation  begins.  ,'^i  have  only  told  me  half 
this  lady's  story,  Mr.  Audley.  You  must  t  ii  me  more,  before  I  can  of- 
fer you  any  advice.     What  has  become  of  the  first  husband.'?" 

He  asked  this  question  in  a  decisive  tone,  as  if  he  knew  it  to  be  the 
key-stone  of  an  arch.  < 

u  I  have  already  told  you,  Dr.  Mosgrave,  that  I  do  not  know." 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  physician,  "  but  your  face  has  told  me  what  you 
have  withheld  from  me  ;  it  has  told  me  that  you  suspect." 

Robert  Audley  was  silent. 

"  If  I  am  to  be  of  use  to  you,  you  must  trust  me,  Mr.  Audley,"  said 
the  physician.  "  The  first  husband  disappeared— how,  and  when  ?  I 
want. to  know  the  history  of  his  disappearance." 

Robert  paused  for  some  time  before  he  replied  to  this  speech :  but, 
by  and  by,  he  lifted  his  head,  which  had  been,  bent  in  an  attitude  of  ear- 
nest thought,  and  addressed  the  physician. 

"I  will  trust  you,  Dr.  Mosgrave,"  he  said,  "  I  will  confide  entirely  in 
your  honor  and  goodness.  I  io  not  ask  you  to  do  any  wrong  to  socie- 
ty ;  but  I  ask  you  to  save  our  stainless  name  from  degredation  and 
shame,  if  you  can  do  so  conscientiously."  • 

He  told  the  story  of  George's  disappearance,  and  of  his  own  doubts 
and  fears,  heaven  knows  how  reluctantly. 

Dr.  Mosgrave  listened  as  quietly  as  he  had  listened  before.  Robert 
concluded  with  an  earnest  appeal  to  the  physician's  best  feelings.  He 
implored  him  to  spare  the  generous  old  man,  whose  fatal  confidence  in 
a  wicked  woman  had  brought  much  misery  upon  his  declining  years. 

It  was  impossible  to  draw  any  conclusion;  either  favorable  or  other- 
wise, from  Dr.  Mosgrave's  attentive  face.  He  rose,  when  Robert  had 
finished  speaking,  and  looked  at  his  watch  once  more. 

"  I  can  only  spare  you  twenty  minutes,"  he  said.  "  I  will  see  the  la- 
dy, if  you  please.     You  say  her  mother  died  in  a  mad-house." 

"  She  did.     Will  j&u  see  Lady  Audley  alone  ?" 

"  Yes,  alone,  if  you  please." 


ladV  audley's  secret.  257 

Robert  rang  for  my  lady's  maid,  and  under  convoy  of  that  smart  young 
damsel  the  physician  found  hi.s  way  to  the  octagon  autc-chamber,  and 
the  fairy  boudoir  with  which  it  communicated. 

Ten  minutes  afterwards,  he  returned  to  the  library,  in  which  Robert 
sat  waiting  for  him. 

"I  have  talked  to  the  lady,"  he  said  quietly,  "and  we  understand  each 
other  very  well.  There  is  latent  insanity  !  Insanity  which  might  never 
appear  ;  or  which  might  appear  only  once  or  twice  in  a  lifetime.  It 
would  be  dementia  in  its  worst  phase,  perhaps  :  acute  mania;  but  its  du- 
ration would  be  very  brief,  and  it  would  only  arise  under  extreme  men- 
tal pressure.  The  lady  is  not  mad  ;  but  she  has  the  hereditary  taint  in 
her  blood.  She  has  the  cunning  of  madness,  with  the  prudence  of  intel- 
ligence.    I  will  tell  you  what  she  is,  Mr.  Audley.     She  is  dangerous  !" 

Dr.  Mosgrave  walked  up  and  down  the  room  once  or  twico  before  he 
spoke  again. 

"  I  will  not  discuss  the  probabilities  of  the  suspicion  which  distresses 
you,  Mr.  Audley,"  he  said  presently,  "  but  I  will  tell  you  this  much.  1 
do  not  advise  any  esclandre.  This  Mr.  George  Talboys  has  disappeared, 
but  you  have  no  evidence  of  his  death.  If  you  could  produce  evidence 
of  his  death,  you  could  produce  no  evidence  against  this  lady,  beyond 
the  one  fact  that  she  had  a  powerful  motive  for  getting  rid  of  him.  No 
jury  in  the  United  Kingdom  would  condemn  her  upon  such  evidence  as 
that." 

Robert  Audley  interrupted  Dr.  Mosgrave,  hastily. 

"  I  assure  you,  my  dear  sir,"  he  said,  "  that  my  greatest  fear  is  the 
necessity  of  any  exposure — any  disgrace." 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Audley,"  answered  the  physician  coolly,  "but  you 
cannot  expect  me  to  assist  you  to  condone  one  of  the  worst  ofTenccs 
tigainst  society.  If  I  saw  adequate  reason  for  believing  that  a  murder 
had  been  committed  by  this  woman,  I  should  refuse  to  assist  you  in 
smuggling  her  away  out  of  the  reach  of  justice,  although  the  honor  of  a 
hundred  noble  families  might  be  saved  by  my  doing  so.  But  I  do  not 
see  adequate  reason  for  your  suspicions;  and  I  will  do  my  best  to  help  you.'1 

Robert  Audley  grasped  the  physician's  hands  in  both  his  own. 

"  I  will  thank  you  when  I  am  better  able  to  do  so,"  he  said,  with  emo- 
tion ;  "  I  will  thank  you  in  my  uncle's  name  as  well  as  in  my  own." 

"  I  h*ave  only  five  minutes  more,  and  I  have  a  letter  to  write,"  said 
Dr.  Mosgrave,  smiling  at  the  young  man's  energy. 

He  seated  himself  at  a  writing-table  in  the.  window,  dipped  his  pen  in 
the  ink,  and  wrote  rapidly  for  about  seven  minutes.     He  had  filled  three 
sides  of  a  sheet  of  note  paper,  when  he  threw  down  his  pen  and  fol 
his  letter.  ' 

lie  put  this  letter  into  an  envelope,  and  delivered  it,  unsealed,  to  Ro 
belt  Audley. 

The  address  which  it  bore  was — 

"  Monsieur  Val, 

"  Villebrumeuse, 

0 

II 


25S  LADY  AODLEY'S  SECRET, 

Mr.'  Audley  looked  rather  doubtfully  from  this  address  to  the  doctor, 
•who  was  putting  on  his  gloves  as  deliberately  as  if  his  life  had  never 
known  a  more  solemn  purpose  than  the  proper  adjustment  of  them. 

"  That  lctler,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  Robert  Audley's  inquiring  look, 
"  is  written  to  my  friend  Monsieur  Val,  the  proprietor  and  medical  su-  . 
perintendent  of  a  very  excellent  ?naiso7i  de  sanie  in  the  town  of  Ville- . 
brumeuse.  We  have  known  each  other  for  many  years,  and  he  will  no 
-doubt  willingly  receive  Lady  Audley  into  his  establishment,  and  charge 
himself  with  the  full  responsibility  of  her  future  life;  it  will  not  be  a 
very  eventful  one !" 

Robert  Audley  would  have  spoken,  he  would  have  once  more  ex- 
pressed his  gratitude  for  the  help  which  had  been  given  to  him,  but  Dr. 
Mosgrave  checked  him  with  an  authoritative  gesture. 

"From  the  moment  in  which  Lady  Audley  enters  that  house,"  he 
said,  "her  life,  so  far  as  life  is  made  up  of  action  and  variety,  will  be 
finished.  Whatever  secrets  she  may.  have  will  be  secrets  for  ever  ! 
Whatever  crimes  she  may  have  committed  she  will  be  able  to  commit 
no  more.  If  you  were  to  dig  a  grave  for  her  in  the  nearest  churchyard 
and  bury  her  alive  in  it,  you  could  not  more  safely  shut  her  from  the 
world  and  all  worldly  associations.  But  as  a  physiologist  and  as  an 
honest  man,  I  believe  you  could  do  no  better  service  to  society  than  by 
doing  this  ;  for  physiology  is  a  lie  if  the  woman  I  saw  ten  minutes  ago 
is  a  woman  to  be  trusted  at  large.  If  she  could  have  sprung  at  my 
throat  and  strangled  me  with  her  little  hands,  as  I  sat  talking  to  her  just 
now,  she  would  have  done  it." 

"  She  suspected  your  purpose,  then  !" 

"  She  knew  it.  '  You  think  I  am  mad  like  my  mother,  and  you'  have 
come  to  question  me,'  she  said.  '  You  are  watching  for  some  sign  of 
the  dreadful  taint  in  my  blood.'  Good  day  to  you,  Mr.  Audley,"  the 
physician  added  hurriedly,  "  my  time  was  up  ten  minutes  ago,  it  is  as 
much  as  I  shall  do  to  catch  the  train." 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

BURIED   ALIVE. 

Robert  Audley  sat  alone  in  the  library  with  the  physician's  letter 
dpon  the  table  before  him,  thinking  of  the  work  which  was  still  to  be 
done. 

The  young  barrister  had  constituted  himself  the  denouncer  of  this 
wretched  woman.  .He  had  been  her  judge  ;  and  he  was  now  her  jailer. 
Not  until  he  had  delivered  the  letter  which  lay  before  him  to  its  proper 


LADY  AUDLFYTS  SECRET.  259 

« 

address,  not  until  ho  had'  given  up  his  charge  into  the.  safe,  keeping  of  the 
fpreign  mad-house  doctor,  not  until  then  would  the  dreadful  burden  be 
removed  from  him  and  his  duty  done. 

He  wrote  a  few  lines  to  ray  lady,  telling  her  that  he  was  going  to  car- 
ry her  away  from  Audley  Court  to  a  place  from  which  she  was  not  like- 
ly to  return,  and  requesting  her  to  lose  no  time  in  preparing  for  the  jour- 
He  wished  to  start  that  evening,  if  possible,  he  told  her. 

Miss  Susan  Martin,  the  lady's  maid,  thought  it  a  very  hard  thing  to 
have  to  pack  her  mistress's  trunks  in  such  a  hurry,  but  my  lady  assisted 
in  the  task.  She  toiled  resolutely  in  directing  and  assisting  her  servant, 
who  scented  bankruptcy  and  ruin  in  all  this  packing  up  and  hurrying 
away,  and  was  therefore  rather  languid  and  indifferent  in  the  discharge 
of  her  duties;  arid  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  she.  sent  her  attendant 
to  tell  Mr.  Audley  that  she  was  ready  to  depart  as  soon  as  he  pleased. 

Robert  had  consulted  a  volume  of  Bradshaw,  and  had  discovered  that 
Villebrumeuse  lay  out  of  the  track  of  all  railway  traffic,  and  was  only 
•achable.  by  diligence -from  Brussels.  The  mail  for  Dover  left  Lon- 
don Bridge  at  nine  o'clock,  and  could  be  easily  caught  by  Robert  and 
his  charge,  as  the  seven  o'clock  up-trainfrom  Audley  reached  Shoreditch 
at  a  quarter  past  eight.  Travelling  by  the  Dover  and  Calais  route,  they 
would  reach  Villebrumeuse  by  the  following  af;  ernoon  or  evening. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  when  the  diligence  hump- 
ed and  rattled  over  the  uneven  paving  of  the  principal  street  in  Ville- 
brumeuse. 

Robert  Audley  and  my  lady  had  had  the  covjyc  of  the  diligence  to 
themselves  for  the  whole  of  the  journey,  for  there  were  not  many  trav- 
ellers between  Brussels  arid  Villebrumeuse,  and  the  public  conveyance 
was  supported  by  the  force  of  tradition  rather  than  by  any  great  profit 
attaching  to  it  as  a  speculation. 

My  lady  had  not  spoken  during  the  journey,  except  to  decline  some 
refreshments  which  Robert  had  olfercd  her  at  a  halting-place  upon  the 
road.  Her  heart  sank  when  they  left  Brussels  behind,  for  she  had  hoped 
thai  city  might  have  been  the  end  of  her  journey,  and  she  had  turned 
with  a  feeling  of  sickness  and  despair  from  the  dull  Belgian  landscape 

She  looked  up  at  last  as  the  vehicle  jolted   into  a  great  stony  quad- 
rangle, which  had  been  the  approach  to  a  monastery  on. t,  hut  which 
now  the  court-yard  of  a  dismal  hotel,   in   whose   cellars,   legions  of  rats 
skirmished  and  squeaked  even  while  the  broad  sunshine  was   bright  in 
the  chambers  ab< 

.Lady  Audley  shuddered  as  she  alighted  from  the  diligence,  and  found 
herself  in  that  dreary  courtyard.     Robert  was  surrounded  by  chattering 
porters,  who  clamored  for  his  "baggages,"  and  d 
selves  as  to  the  hotel    at    which   he   was  to 
away  to  fetch  a  haokney-eoa<h  at  Mr.  AnrHey's  behest,  and  reapp 

ntly,  urging  on  a  pair  <.f  horses — which  were  ^o  small  an  I 
the  idea  tl.  had  been  made  i  ordinary  -ized  animal  —  with 

wild  shrieks  and  whoops  that  had  a  den  the  dar).' 

Mr.  Audley  left  my  lady  in  a  dreary   coffee  p-orr,  in  the  care 


260  LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET. 

drowsy  attendant  while  he  drove  away  to  some  distant,  part  of  the  quiet 
city.  There  was  official  business  to  be  gone  -through  before  Sir  Mioh- 
ael's  w  ife  could  be  quietly  put  away  in.  the  place  suggested  by  Dr.  Mos- 
grave.  Robert  had  to  see  all  manner  of  important  personages ;  and  to 
take  numerous  oaths  ;  and  to  exhibit  the  English  physician's  letter ;  and 
to  go  through  much  ceremony  of  signing  and  countersigning  before  he 
could  take  his  lost  friend's  cruel  wife  to  the  home  which  was  to  bo  her 
last  upon  earth.  Upwards  of  two  hours  elapsed  before  all  this  was  ar- 
ranged, and  the  young  man  was  free  to  return  to  the  hotel,  where  he 
found  his  charge  stariDg  absently  at  a  pair  of  wax  candles,  with  a  cup  of 
untasted  coffee  standing  cold  and  stagnant  before  her. 

Robert  handed  my  lady  into  the  hired  vehicle,  and  took  his  seat  op- 
posite to  her  once  more. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  take  me  V  she  asked,  at  last.  "  I  am  tired 
of  being  treated  like  some  naughty  child,  who  is  put  into  a  dark  cellar 
as  a  punishment  for  its  offences.    "Where  are  you  taking  me  V 

"  To  a  place  in  which  you  will  have  ample  leisure  to  repent  the  past, 
Mrs.  Talboys,"  Robert  answered,  gravely. 

They  had  left  the  paved  streets  behind  them,  and  had,  emerged  out  of 
a  great  gaunt  square,  in  which  there  appeared  to  be  about  half  a  dozen 
cathedrals,  into  a  smooth  boulevard,  a  broad  lamp-lit  road,  on  which  the 
shadows  of  the  leafless  branches  went  and  came  tremblingly,  like  the 
shadows  of  paralytic  skeletons.  There  were  houses  here  and  there  upon 
this  boulevard ;  stately  houses,  entre  cour  et  jardin,  and  with  plaster 
vases  of  geraniums  on  the  stone  pillars  of  the  pondeious  gateways. 
The  rumbling  hackney-carriage  drove  upwards  of  three-quarters  of  a 
mile  along  this  smooth  roadway  before  it  drew  up  against  a  gateway, 
older  and  more  ponderous  than  any  of  those  they  had  passed. 

My  lady  gave  a  little  scream  as  she  looked  out  of  the  coach  window. 
The  gaunt  gateway  was  lighted  by  an  enormous  lamp ;  a  great  structure 
of  iron  and  glass,  in  which  one  poor  little  shivering  flame  struggled  with . 
the  March  wind. 

The  coachman  rang  the  bell,  and  a  little  wooden  door  at  the  side  of 
the  gate  was  opened  by  a  gray-haired  man,  who  looked  out  of  the  car- 
riage, and  then  retired.  He  reappeared  three  minutes  afterward  behind 
the  folding  iron  gates,  which  he  unlocked  and  threw  back  to  their  full 
extent,  revealing  a  dreary  desert  of  stone-paved -courtyard. 

The  coachman  led  his  wretched  horses  into  this  courtyard,  and  piloted 
the  vehicle  to  the  principal  doorway  of  the  house,  a  great  mansion  of 
gray  stone,  with  several  long  ranges  of  windows,  many  of  which  were 
dimly  lighted,  and  looked  out  like  -the  pale  eyes  of  weary  watchers  upon 
the  darkness  of  the  night. 

My  lady,  watchful  and  quiet  as  the  cold  stars  in  the  wintry  sky, 
looked  up  at  these  casements  with  an  earnest  and  scrutinizing  gaze.  One 
of  the  windows  was  shrouded  by  a  scanty  curtain  of  faded  red ;  and  upon 
this  curtain  there  went  and  came  a  dark  shadow,  the  shadow  of  a  woman 
with  a  fantastic  head-dress,  the  shadow  of  a  restless  creature  who  paced 
perpetually  backward  and  forward  before  the  Window. 


LADY   AUDLEYS  SECRE'l  261 

Sir  Michael  Audley's  wicked  wife  laid  her  hand  suddenly  upon  Ro- 
bert's arm,  and  pointed  with  the  other  hand  to  this  qurtained  window. 

"  1  know  where  you  have  brought  me,"  she  said.  "This  is  a  Mad- 
Hoi 

Mr.  Audley  did  not  answer  her.  He  had  been -standing  at  the  door 
pf  the  coach  when  she  addressed  him,  and  he  quietly  assisted  her  to 
alight,  and  led  her  up  a  couple  of  shallow  stone  steps,  and  into  the  en- 
trance-hall of  the  mansion.  He  handed  Dr.  Mosgrave'a  letter  to  a  neat- 
ly-dressed, cheerful-looking,  middle-aged  woman,  who  came  tripping  out 
of  a  little  chamber  which  opened  out  of  the  hall,  and  was  very  much 
like  the  bureau  of  an  hotel.  This  person  smilingly  welcomed  Robert 
and  his  charge  ;  and  after  despatching  a  servant  with  the  letter,  invited 
them  into  her  pleasant  little  apartment,  which  was  gaily  furnished  with 
bright  amber  curtains  and  heated  by  a  tiny  stove. 

"Madame  finds  herself  very  much  fatigued,"'  the  Frenchwoman  said, 
interrogatively,  wdth  a  look  of  iutense  sympathy,  as  she  placed  an  arm- 
chair for  my  lady. 

"  Madame"  shrugged  her  shoulders  wearily,  and  looked  round  the  little 
chamber  with  a  sharp  glance  of  scrutiny  that  betokened  no -very  great 
favor. 

"  What  is  this  place,  Robert  Audley1?"  she  cried  fiercely.  "  Do  you 
think  I  am  a  baby,  that  you  may  juggle  with  and  deceive  me — what  is 
it  1     It  is  what  I  said  just  now,  is  it  not?" 

"  It  is  a  maison  de  sanie,  my  lady,"  the  young  man  answered,  gravely. 
"  I  have  no  wish  to  juggle  with  or  to  deceive  you." 

My  lady  paused  for  a  few  moments,  looking  reflectively  at  Robert. 

"A  maison  de  saute"  she  repeated.     "Yes  ;  they  manage  these  things' 
better  in  France.     In   England  we  should  call  it  a  mad  house.     This  is 
a  house  for  mad  people,  this,  is  it  not,  Madame  ?"  she  said,  in  French 
turning  upon  the  woman,  and  tapping  the  p< dished  floor  with  her  f 

"Ah,  but  no,  Madame,"  the  woman  answered,  with  a  shrill  scream  of 
protest.  "It* is  an  establishment  of  the  most  agreeable,  where  one 
amuses  one's  self " 

She  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  the  principal  of  this  agreeable 
establishment,  who  came  beaming  into  the  room  with  a  radiant  smile 
illuminating  his  countenance,  and  with  Dr.  Mosgrave's  letter  open  in  his 
hand. 

It  was  impossible  to  say  how  enchanted  he  was  to  make  the  aoquain- 
of  M'sieu.  There  was  nothing  upon  earth  which  he  was  not  ready 
to  do  for  M'sieu  in  his  own  person,  and  nothing  under  heaven  which  he 
would  not  strive  to  accomplish  for  him.  as  the  friend'of  his  acquaint.. 
so  very  much  distinguished,  the  English  doctor.  Dr.  Mosgrave's  )< 
had  given  him  a  brief  synopsis  of  the  ca  •.  he  informed  Robert,  in  an  un- 
dertone, and  he  was  quite  prepan  I  I  rtake  the  care  of  the  charm- 
ing and  very  interesting  Madame — Madame 

He  rubbed  his  hands  politely,  and  looked  at  Robert.  Mr.  Audley 
remembered,  for  the  first  time,  that  he  had  been  recommended  to  intro- 
duce his  wretched  charge  un<l  ed  name. 


262  LAJJY   AUDLEY'S  SECRET. 

Ho  affected  not  to  hear  the  proprietor's  question.  It  might  seem  a 
very  easy  matter  to  have  hit  upon  a  heap  of  names,  any  one  of  which 
would  have  answered  his  purpose;  but  Mr.  Audley  appeared  suddenly 
to  have  forgotten  that  he  had  ever  heard  any  mortal  appellation  except 
that  of  himself  and  '.is  lost  friend. 

Perhaps  the  proprietor  perceived  and  understood  his  embarrassment. 
He  at  any  rate  relieved' it  by  turning  to  the  woman  who  had  reeeived 
them,  and  muttering  something  about  No.  14,  Bis.  The  woman  took  a 
key  from  a  long  range  of  others  that  hung  over  the  mantelpiece,  and  a 
wax  candle  from  a  bracket  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  and  having  lighted 
the  candle,  led  the  way  across  the  stone-paved  hall,  and  up  a  broad  slip- 
pery staircase  of  polished  wood. 

The  English  physician  had  informed  his  Belgian  colleague  that  money  . 
would  be  of  minor  consequence  in  any  arrangements  made  for  the  comfort 
of  the  English  lady  who  was  to  be  committed  to  his  care.  Acting  upon 
this  hint,  Monsieur  Val  opened  the  outer  door  of  a  stately  suite  of  apart- 
ments, which  included  a  lobby,  paved  with  alternate  diamonds  of  black 
and  white  marble,  but  of  a  dismal  and  cellar-like  darkness  ;  a  saloon  fur- 
nished with  gloomy  velvet  draperies,  and  with  a  certain  funereal  splendor 
which  is  not  peculiarly  conducive  to  the  elevation  of  the  spirits ;  and  a 
bed-chamber,  containing  a  bed  so  wonderously  made,  as  to  appear  to  have 
no  opening  whatever  in  its  coverings,  unless  the  counterpane  had  been 
split  asunder  with  a  penknife. 

My  lady  stared  dismally  round  &t  the  range  of  rooms,  which  looked 
dreary  enough  in  the  wan  light  of  a  single  wax  candle.  This  solitary 
flame,  pale  and  ghostlike  in  itself,  was  multiplied  by  paler  phantoms  of 
its  ghostliness,  which  glimmered  everywhere  about  the  rooms  ;  in  the 
shadowy  depths  of  the  polished  floors  and  wainscot,  or  the  window-panes, 
in  the  looking-glasses,  or  in  those  great  expanses  of  glimmering  some- 
thing which  adorned  the  rooms,  and  which  my  lady  mistook  for  costly 
mirrors,  but  which  were  in  reality  wretched  mockeries  of  burnished  tin* 

Amid  all  the  faded  splendor  of  shabby  velvet,  and  tarnished  gilding, 
and  polished  wood,  the  woman  dropped  into  an  arm-chair,  and  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands.  The  whiteness  of  them,  and  the  starry  light  of 
diamonds  trembling  about  them,  glittered  in  the  dimly-lighted  chamber. 
She  sat  silent,  motionless,  despairing,  sullen,  and  angry,  while  Robert 
and  the  French  doctor  retired  into  an  outer  chamber,  and  talked  together 
in  undertones.  Mr.  Audley  had  very  little  to  say  that  had  not  been  al- 
ready said  for  him,  with  a  far  better  grace  than  he  himself  could  have 
expressed  it,  by  the  English  physician.  He  had,  after  great  trouble  of 
mind,  hit  upon  the  name  of  IV..  --,  as  a  safe  and  siniple  substitute  for 
that  other  name  to  which  aluno  my  lady  had  a  right.  He  told  the 
Frenchman  that  this  Mrs.  Taylor  was  distantly  related  to  him — that  she 
had  inherited  the  seeds  of  madness  from  her  mother,  as  indeed  Dr.  Mos- 
grave  had  informed  Monsieur  Val ;  and,  that  she  had  shone  some  fearful 
tokens  of  the  lurking  taint  that  was  latent  in  her  mind;  but  that  she 
was  not  to  be  called  "mad.:'  He  begged  that  she  might  be  treated  with 
all  tenderness  and  compassion ;  that  she  might  receive  all  reasonable 


LADY  AUDLEY'-'-  SECRET  263 

indulgences;  but  ho  impressed  upon  Monsieur  Val,  that  und^er  no  cir- 
cumstauces  was  she   to  be  permitted  to  leave  the  htfuse  and  grounds 
without  the  protection  of  some   reliable  poison,  who  should  I 
able  for  her  sale  keeping.     He  had  only  .one  other  point  to  urge 
that  was,  that   Monsieur  Val,  who,  as  lie  had  understood,  was  birrh 
Protestant — the  doetor  bowed — would  make  arrangements  with 
kind  and  benevolent  Protestant  clergyman,  through  whom  spiritual  ad- 
vice and  consolation  might  1  :  for  the  invalid  lady  ;  who  1 1 
.pecial  need,  Robert  added  gravely,  of  Such  advantages. 

This — with  all  necessary  arrangements  as  to  pecuniary  matters,  which 
were"  to  be  settled  from  lime  to  time  between  Mr.  Audley  and  tie 
tor,  unassisted  by  any  agents  whatever — was  the  extent  of  the  conver- 
sation between  the  two  men,  and  occupied  about,  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
My  lady  sat  in  the  same.auilude  when  they  re-entered  the  bed-chai 
in  which  they  had  left  her,  with  her  ringed  hands  still  clasped  over  her 
face. 

Robert  bent  over  her  to  whisper  in  her  ear. 

"  Your  name  is  Madame  Taylor  here,"  he  said.  "  1  do  not  think  you 
would  wish  to  be  known  by  your  real  name." 

She  only  shook  her  head  in  answer  to  him,  and  did  not  even  remove 
her  hands  from  over  her  face. 

"  Madame  will  have  an  attendant  entirely  devoted  to  her  service," 
said  Monsieur  Val.  "  Madame  will  have  all  her  wishes  obeyed  ;  her 
reasonable  wishes,  but  that  goes  without  saying,"  Monsieur  adds,  with  .i 
quaint  shrug.  "Every  effort  will  be  made  to  render  Madame's  sojourn 
at  Villebrumeuse  agreeable,  and  a*  much  profitable  as  agreeable.-  The 
inmates  dine  together  when  it  is  wished.  I  dine  with  the  inmateB,  some- 
times; my  subordinate,  a  clever  and  a  worthy  man,  always.  I  reside 
with  my  wife  and  children  in  a  little  pavilion  in  the  grounds;  my  sub- 
ordinate resides  in  the  establishment.  Madame  may  rely  upon  our  ut- 
most efforts  being  exerted  to  ensure  her  comfort." 

-Monsieur  is  saying  a  great  deal  more  to  the  same  effect,  rubbing  his 
hands  and  beaming  radiantly  upon  Kobert  and  hi*  charge,  when  M;. 
rises  suddenly,  on   i  and  furious,  and  dropping  her  jewelled  ringers  fro*m 
before  her  face,  tells  him  to  hold  his  tongue. 

"  Leave*"  me  alone  with  the  man  who  has  brought  me  here,"  she  cried 
between  her  set  teeth.     "  Leave  me!" 

She  points  to  the  door  with  a  sharp,  imperious  gesture ;  so  rapid  that 
the  silken  drapery  about  her  arm  makes  a  swooping  sound  as  she  lifts 
her  hand.  The  sibilant  French  syllables  hiss  through  her  teeth  as  she 
utters  them,  and  seem  better  fitted  to  her  mood  and  to  herself  than  the 
familiar  English  she  has  spoken  hitherto. 

The  French  doctor  shrug-  his  shoulders  as  he  goes  out  into  the  dark 
lobby,  and  mutters  something  about  a  "  beautiful  devil,"  and  a  gr 
worthy  of  "the  Mars."     My  lad\  with  a  rapid  fix  the 

door  between  the  bed-chamber  and  the  saloon;  closed  it,  and  with 
handle  of  the  door  still  in  her  hand,  turned  and  looked  at  Robert  Aud 

■  You  have  brought  me  to  my  grave,  Mr.  Audloy,"  she  cried  ;  "  tou 


264  LADY   DUDLEY'S  SECRET. 

have  used  your  power  basely  and  cruelly,  and  have  brought  me  to  a 
living  grave." 

"  I  have  done  that  which  I  thought  just  to  others  and  merciful  to  you'," 
Robert  answered,  quietly.  "1  should  have  been  a  traitor  to  society  had 
I  suffered  you  to  remain  at  liberty  after — after  the  disappearance  of 
George  Talboys  and  the  fire  at  the  Castle  Inn.  I  have  brought  you  to  a 
place  in  which  you  will  be  kindly  treated  by  people  who  have  no  know- 
ledge of  your  story — no  power  to  taunt  or  to  reproach  you.  You  will  lead 
a  quiet  and  peaceful  life,  my  lady  ;  such  a  life  as  many  a  good  aud  holy, 
woman  in  this  catholic  country  freely  takes  upon  herself,  and  happily 
endures  unto  the  end.  The  solitude  of  your  existence  in  this  place  will 
be  no  greater  £han  that  of  a  king's  daughter,  who,  flying  from  the'  evil 
of  the  time,  was  glad  to  take  shelter  in  a  house  as  tranquil  as  this. 
Surely  it  is  a  small  atonement  which  I  ask  you  to  render  for  your,  sins, 
a  light  penance  which  I  call  upon  you  to  perform.  Live  here  and  re- 
pent ;  nobody  will  assail  you,  nobody  will  torment  you.  I  only  say  to 
you,  repent !" 

'  "  I  cannot /"  cried  my  lady,  pushing  her  hair  fiercely  from  her  white 
forehead,  and  fixing  her  dilated  eyes  upon  Robert  Audley,  "  I  cannot ! 
Has  my  beauty  brought  me  to  this  ?  Have  I  plotted  and  schemed  to 
shield  myself,  and  laid  awake  in  the  long  deadly  nights  trembling  to 
think  of  my  dangers,  for  this.?  I  had  better  have  given  up  at  once,  since 
this  was  to  be  the  end.  I  had  better  have  yielded  to  the  curse  that  was 
upon  me,  and  given  up  when  George  Talboys  first  came  back  to  England." 

She  plucked  at  the  feathery  golden  curls  as  if  she  would  have  torn 
them  from  her  head.  It  had  served  her  so  little  after  all,  that  glorious- 
ly glittering  hair ;  that  beautiful  nimbus  of  yellow  light  that  had  con. 
trasted  so  exquisitely  with  the  melting  azure  of  her  eyes.  She  hated 
herself  and  her  beauty. 

"  I  would  laugh  at  you  and  defy  you,  if  I  dared,"  she  cried ;  "  I  would 
kill  myself  and  defy  you,  if  I  dared.  But  I  am  a  poor,  pitiful  coward, 
and  have  been  so  from  the  first.  Afraid  of  my  mother's  horrible  in- 
heritance; afraid  of  poverty  ;  afraid  of  George  Talboys ;  afraid  of  yo«.". 

She  was  silent  for  a  little  while,  but  she  still  held  her  place  by  the 
door,  as  if  determined  to  detain  Robert  as  long  as  it  was  her  pleasure 
to  do  so. 

•"  Do  you  know  what  I  am  thinking  of?"  she  said,  presently.  "  Do 
you  know  what  I  am  thinking  of,  as  I  look  at  you  in  the  dim  light  of 
this  room  %  I  am  thinking  of  the  day  upon  which  George  Talboys — dis- 
appeared." 

Robert  started  as  she  mentioned  the  name  of  his  lost  friend  ;  his  face 
turned  pale  in  the  dusky  light,  and  his  breathing  grew  quicker  and  louder. 

"  He  was  standing  opposite  me,  as  you  are  standing  now,"  continued 
my  lady.  "  You  said  that  you  would  raze  the  old  house  to  the  ground ; 
that  you  would  root  up  every  tree  in  the  gardens  to  find  your  dead  friend. 
You  would  have  had  no  need  to  do  so  much  :  the  body  of  George  Tal- 
boys lies  at  the  bottom  of  the  old  well,  in  the  shrubbery  beyond  the 
lime- walk." 


LADY'  AUDLlSVs  SECRE*  -Jfir, 

befit  Audley  flung  up  his  hands  and  clasped  lliem  above    his  head', 
with  one  loud  cry  of  horror.  % 

"  Oh,  my  God  !"  he  said,  after  a  dreadful  pause  ;  "have  all  the  ghast- 
ly things  that  I  have  thought  prepared  me  so  little  for  the  ghastlv  truth, 
i hat  it  should  come  upon  me  like  this  at  la 

"He  came  to  me  in  the  lime-walk,"  resumed  my  lady,  in    the   - 
hard,  dogged  tunc  as  that  in  which  she  had  I    the   wicked 

of  her  lite.     "  1  knew  that  he  would  coi  :   had   prepared  mi 

as  well  as  I  could,  to  meet  him.  I  was  determined  to  bril 
jole  him,  to  defy  him  :  to  do  any  thing  sooner  than  abandon  the  wealih 
and  the  position  I  had  won,  and  go  back  to  my  old  life. .  He  came,  and 
he  reproached  me  for  the  conspiracy  at  Ventuor'.  '  He  declared  that  so 
long  as  he  lived  he  would  never  forgive  me  for  the  lie  that  had  broken 
his  heart.  He  told  me  that  I  had  plucked  his  heart  out  of  his  breast 
and  trampled  upon  it;  and  that  he  had  now  no  heart  iu  whi< 
one  sentiment  of  mercy  for  me.  That  he  would  have  forgiven  me  any 
wrong  upon  earth,  but  that  one  deliberate  and  passionless  wrong  that  I 
had  done  him.  He  said  this  and  a  great  deal  more,  and  he  told  me  that 
no  power  on  earth  should  turn  him  from  his  purpose,  which  was  to  take 
me  to  the  man  I  had  deceived,  and  make  me  toll  my  wicked  story.  lie 
did  not  know  the  hidden  taint  that  1  had  sucked  in  with  'my  mother's 
milk.  He  did  not  know  that  it  was  possible  to  drive  me  mad.  lie 
goaded  me  as  youbave  goaded  me;  he  was  as  merciless  as  you  have 
been  merciless.  We  were  in  the  shrubbery  at  the  end  of  the  lime-walk. 
I  was  seated  upon  the  broken  masonry  at  the  mouth  of  the.  well.  Gi 
Talboys  was  leaning  upon  the  disused  windlass,  in  which  the  rusty  iron 
spindle  rattled  loosely  whenever  he  shifted  his  position.  I  rose  at  last 
and  turned  upon  him  to  defy  him,  as  I  had  determined  to  defy  him  at 
the  worst.  I  told  him  that  if  he  denounced  me  to  Sir  Michael,  I  would 
declare  him  to  be  a  madman  or  a  liar,  and  I  defied  him  to  convince  the 
man  who  loved  me— blindly,  as  I  told  him — that  he  had  any  claim  to 
me.  I  was  going  to  leave  him  after  having  told  him  this,  when  he 
caught  me  by  the  wrist  and  detained  me  by  force.  You  saw  the  bi 
that  his  fingers  made  upon  my  wrist  and  noticed  them,  and  did  not  be- 
lieve the 'account  1  gave  of  them.  I  could  see  that,  Mr.  Robert  Audley, 
and  I  saw  that  you-were  a  person  I  should  have  to  fear." 

She  paused,  as  if  she  had  expec'  »  to  speak  ;  but  he  sto> 

lent  and  motionless,  waiting  for  the  end. 

"  George  Talboys  treated  me  as  you  trea  the  said,  presently. 

"  He  swore  that  if  there  was  but  one  witness  of  my  identity,  an>l  that 
witness  was  removed  from  Audley  Court  by   the  width   of  tl 
earth,  he  would  bring  him  there  to  swear  to  my  identity,  and   to  de- 
nounce me.     It  was  theu  that  1  was  mad.     It  was  then  that  I  drew  the 
loose  iron  spindle  from  the  shrunken  wood,  and    saw  my   first   hu 
sink  with  one  horrible  cry  into  the  black  month- of  the  well. 
legend  of  its  enormous  depth.     1  do  no'  know  how  • 
I  suppose,  for  I  heard  no  splash,  only  a  dull  thud.     1  looked  down 
saw  nothing  but.  black  emptinpss.     f  knelt  down  and   listened,  bul 


266  ;     LADY   AUDLEY'S  SECRET. 

cry  was  not  repeated,  though  I  waited  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour — 
God  knows  how  long  it  seemed  to  me! — b\-  the. mouth  of  the  well." 

Robert  Audley  uttered  no  word  of  horror  when  the  story  was  finish- 
ed. He  moved  a  little  nearer  towards  the  door  against  which  Helen 
Talboys  stood.  Had  there  been  any  other  means  of  exit  from  the  room, 
he  would  gladly  have  availed  himself  of  it.  He  shrunk  from  even  a  mo- 
mentary contact  with  this  creature. 

"  Let  me  pass  you,  if  you  please,"  he  said,  in  an  icy  voice. 

"You  see  I  do  not  fear  to  make  my  confession  to  you,"  said  Helen 
Talboys  ;  "  for  two  reasons.  -  The  first  is, 'that  you  dare  not  use  it  against, 
mc,  because  you  know  it  would  kill  your  uncle  to  see  me  in  a  criminal 
dock  ;  the  second  is,  that  the  law  could  pronounce  no  worse  sentence 
than  this — a  life-long  imprisonment  in  a  madhouse.  You  see  I  do  not 
thank  "you  for  your  mercy,  Mr.  Robert  Audley,  for  I  know  exactly  what 
it  is  worth. 

She  moved  away  from  the  door,  and  Robert  passed  her,  without  a 
word,  without  a  look. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  he  was  in  one  of  the  principal  hotels  at  Ville- 
brumeuse,  sitting  at  a  neatly-ordered  supper-table,  with  no  power  to  eat; 
with  no  power  to  distract  his  mind,  even  for  a  moment,  from  the  image 
of  that  lost  friend  who  had  been  treacherously  murdered  in  the  thicket 
at  Audley  Court. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

GHOST- HAUNTED. 

No  feverish  sleeper  travelling  in  a  strange  dream  ever  looked  out 
more  wonderingly  upon  a  world  that,  seemed  unreal  than  Robert  Aud- 
ley, as  he  stared  absently  at  the  flat  swamps  and  dismal  poplars  between 
Villebremeuse  and  Brussels.  Could  it  be  that  he -was  returning  to  his 
uncle's  house  without  the  woman  who  had  reigned  in  it  for  nearly  two- 
years  as  queen  and  mistress  ?  He  felt  as  if  he  had  carried  off  my  lady, 
and  had  made  away  with  her  secretly  and  darkly,  and  must  now  render 
up  an  account  to  Sir  Michael  of  the  fate  of  that  woman,  whom  the  baro- 
net had  so  dearly  loved. 

"  What  shall  I  tell  him  ?"  he  thought.  "  Shall  I  tell  the  truth— the 
horrible,  ghastly  truth?  No  ;  that  would  be  too  cruel.  His  generous 
spirit  would  sink  under  the  hideous  revelation.  Yet,  in  his  ignorance  of 
the  extent  of  this  wretched  woman's  wickedness,  he  may  think,  perhaps, 
that  I  have  been  hard  with  her." 

Brooding  thus,  Mr.  Robert  Audley  absently  watched  the  cheerless 


LADY   AUDLiiY'S  SECRET  267 

landscape  from  the  seat  in  the  shabby  coupe  of  the  diligence,  and  thought 
how  great  a  leaf  had  been  torn  out  of  hia  life,  now  that  th 
George  Talboys  was  finished. 

bat  had  he  to  do  next  1  A  crowd  of  horrible  thoughts  rushed  into 
his  mind  as  he  remembered  the  story  that  ho  had  heardfrom  the  white 
lips  of  Helen  Talboys.  His  friend — his  murdered  friend — lay  hidden 
amongst  the  mouldering  ruins  of  the  old  well  at  Audley  Court, 
had  lain  there,  for  six  long  months,  unburied.  unknown;  hidden  in  the 
darkness  of  the  old  convent  well.     What  was  to  be  don? 

To  ins  arch  for  the  remains  of  jyhec murdered  man  was'.to 

inevitably  bring  about  a  coroner's  inquest.  Should  such  an  inquest  bo 
held,  it  was  next  to  impossible  that  the  history  of  my  lady's  crime  could 
fail  to  be  brought  to  light.     To  prove  that  Geor  s  met  with  his 

death  at  Audley  Court,  wi  5t  as  surely  that  my  lady  had 

been  the  instrument  of  that   mysterious  death;  for  the  young  man  had 
known  to  follow  her  into  the  lime-walk  upon  the  day  of  his  disap- 
pearance. 

"My  God !"  Robert  exclaimed,  as  the  full  horror  of  this  position  be- 
came  evident   to   him;  "  is  my  friend  to  rest  in  his  unhallowed   burial- 
place  because  I  have  condoned  the  oil'euces  of  the  woman  who  murd 
him  ?" 

He  felt  that  there  was  no  way  out  of  this  difficulty.  '  Sometimes  he 
thought  that  it  little  mattered  to  his  dead  friend  whether  he  lay  entomb- 
ed beneath  a  marble  monument,  whose  workmanship  should  be  the  won- 
der of  the  universe,  or  in  that  obscure  hiding-place  in  the  thicket,  at 
Audley  Court.  At  another  time  he  would  be  seized  with  a  sudden  hor- 
ror at  the  wrong  that  had  been  done  to  the  murdered  man.  and  would 
fain  have  travelled  even  more  rapidly  than  the  express  between  Brussels 
and  Paris  could  carry  him,  in  his  eagerness  to  reach  the  end  of  his  jour- 
ney, that  he  might  set  right  this  cruel  wrong. 

He  was  in  London  at  dusk  on  the  second  day  after  that  on  which  he 
had  left  Audley  Court,  and  he  drove  straight  to  the  Clarendon,  to  in- 
quire after  his  uncle.  lie  had  no  intention  of  seeing  Sir  Michael,  as  he 
had  not  yet  determined  how  much  or  how  little  he  should  tell  him,  but 
he  was  very  anxious  to  ascertain  how  the  old  man  had  sustained  the 
cruel  shock  he  had  so  lately  endured. 

"  I  will  see  Alicia,  he  thought :  "she  will  tell  me  all  about  her  father. 
It  is  only  two  days  since  he  left  Audley.  1  can  scarcely  expect  to  hear 
of  any  favorable  change." 

But  Mr.  Audley    was   not  destined  to  see  his  cousin  tin.  _r.  for 

the  servants  at   the  Clarendon  told  him  th  i  hael  and  his  duugh- 

tcrjhad  left  by  the  morning  mail  for  Paris,  on  their  waj  to  Vienna. 

Robert  was  very  well  pleased  to  receive  this  intelligence)  it  an 
him  a  welcome  respite,  for  it  would  bedepidedly  I 
et  nothing  of  his  guilty  wife  until  he  returned  to  England,  with  bis  h 
unimpaired  and  his  spirits  re-established,  it  was  to  be  boj 

Mr.  Add  ley  drove  to  the    Tem; 
dreary  bo  him   ever  sinoo  the  disappearance  of  Geot^i  were 


268  ■  LADY   AUDLEY'ri  SECRET.    . 

doubly  so  to-night.  For  that  which  had  been  only  a  dark  suspicion  had 
now  become  a  horrible  certaiuty.  There  was  no  longer  room  for  the 
palest  ray.,  the  most  transitory  glimmer  of  hope.  His  worst  terrors  had 
been  too  well  founded. 

George  Talboys  had  been  cruelly  and  treacherously  murdered  by  the 
wife  he  had  loved  and  mourned. 

There  were  three  letters  waiting  for  Mr.  Audley  at  his  chambers. 
One  was  from  Sir  Michael,  and  another  from  Alicia.  The  third  was  ad- 
dressed in  a  hand  the  young  barrister  knew  only  two  well,  though  he 
had  seen  it  but  once  before.  His  face  flushed  redly  at  the  sight  of  the 
superscription,  and  he  took  the  letter  in  his  hand,  carefully  and.tenderly, 
as  if  it  had  been  a  living  thing,  and  sentient  to  his  touch.  He  turned  it 
over  and  over  in  his  hands,  looking  at  the  crest  upon  the  envelope,  at 
the  postmark,  at  the  color  of  the  paper,  and  then  put  it  into  the  bosom 
of  his  waistcoat  with  a  strange  smi'-1  upon  his  face. 

"What  a  wretched  and  uncou. -.'"liable  fool  I  am!"  he  thought. 
"  Have  I  laughed  at  the  follies  of  wea  men  all  my  life,  and  am  I  to  be 
more  foolish  than  the  weakest  of  them  at  last?  The  beautiful  brown- 
eyed  creature  !  Why  did  I  ever  see  her  ?  Why  did  my  relentless  Ne- 
mesis ever  point  the  way  to  that  dreary  house  in  Dorsetshire  ?" 

He  opened  the  first  two  letters.  He  was  foolish  enough  to  keep  the' 
last  for  a  delicious  morsel — a  fairy-like  desert  after  the  common-place 
substantialities  of  a  dinner. 

Alicia's  letter  told  him  that  Sir  Michael  had  borne  his  agony  with  such 
a  persevering  tranquility  that  she  had  become  at  last  far  more  alarmed 
by  his  patient  calmness  than  by  any  stormy  manifestation  of  despair. 
In  this  difficulty  she  had  secretly  called  upon  the  physician  who  attended 
the  Audley  household  in  any  cases  of  serious  illness,  and  had  requested 
this  gentleman  to  pay  Sir  Michael  an  apparently  accidental  visit,  He 
had  done  so,  and  after  stopping  half  an  hour  with  the  baronet,  had  told 
Alicia  that  there  was  no  present  danger  of  any  serious  consequence  from 
this  quiet  f grief,  but  that  it  was  necessary  that  every  effort  should  be 
made  to  arouse  Sir  Michael,  and  to  force  him,  however  unwillingly,  in- 
to action. 

Alicia  had  immediately  acted  upon  this  advice,  had  resumed  her  old 
empire  as  a  spoiled  child,  and  reminded  her  father  of  a  promise  he  had 
made  of  taking  her  through  Germany.  With  considerable  difficulty  she 
had  induced  him  to  consent  to  fulfilling  this  old  promise,  and  having 
once  gained  her  point,  she  had  contrived  that  they  should  leave  England 
as  soon  as  it  was  possible  to  do  so,  and  she  told  Robert,  in  conclusion, 
that  she  would  not  bring  her  father  back  to  his  old  house  until  she  had 
taught  him  to  fo»get  the  sorrows  associated  with  it. 

The  baronet's  letter  was  very  brief.  It  contained  half  a  dozen  blank 
checks  on  Sir  Michael  Audley's  London  bankers.  * 

"  You  will  require  money,  my  dear- Robert,"  lie  wrote,  "for  such  ar- 
rangements as  you  may  think  fit  to  make  for  the  future  comfort  of  the 
person  I  committed  to  your  care.  I  need  scarcely  tell  you  that  those 
arrangements  cannot  be  too  liberal.     But  ,perhaps  it  is  as  well  that  I 


LADY   AUDLEY'S  SECRET.  269 

should   tell  you  now,   for  the  first,  and  only  time,  that  it  is  my  earnest 
wish  never  again  to  hear  that  person's  name.     1  have  no  wish  to  l»c  told 
the  nature  of  the  arrangements   you  may  make  for  her.     I  am  sure  that 
you  will  act  conscientiously  and  mercifully,     1  seek  to  know  no  b 
Whenever  you  want  money,  yon  will  draw  upon   me  for  -that, 

you  may  require  ;   but  you  will  have  ho  occasion  to  tell  me  for  whose 
use  you  want  that  money." 

Robert  Audley  breathed  a  long  sigh  of  relief  as  he  folded  this  letter. 
It  relcaserl  him  from  a  duty  which  it  would  have  been  most  painful  for 
him  to  perform,  and  it  forever  decided  his  course  of  action  with  regard 
to  the  murdered  man. 

George  Talboys  must  lie  at  peace  in  his  unknown  grave,  and  Sir 
Michael  Audley  must  never  learn  that  the  woman  he  had  loved  bora 
tln>  red  brand,  of  murder  on  her  soul. 

I. 'obert  had  only  the  third  Jotter  to  open — the  letter  which  he  had 
placed  in  his  bosom  while  he  rdad  the  others  ;  he  tore  open  the  envelope, 
handling  it  carefully  and  tenderly  as  he  had  done  before. 

The  letter  was  as  brief  as  Sir  Michael's.  It  contained  only  these  few 
lines  : — 

"  Dear  Mr.  Audley — 

"  The  rector  of  this  place  has  boon  twice  to  see  Marks,  the  man  you 
saved  in  the  fire  at  the  Castle  Inn.  lie  lies  in  a  very  precari 
at  his  mother's  cottage,  near  Audley  Court,  and  is  not  expected  to  live 
many  days.  His  wife,  is  attending  him,  and  both  he  and  she  have  c.\- 
ed  a  most  earnest  desire  that  you  should  sec  him  before  he  dies. 
Pray  come  wi-'hout  delay. 

"  Yours  very  sincerely, 

ARA    TALBOTS. 

"Mount  Stanning  Rectory,  March  6." 

Robert  Audley  folded  this  letter  very  reverently,  and  placed  it  m 
neath  that  part  of  his  waistcoat  which  [might  be  supposed,  to  cover  the 
region  of  his  heart.     Having  done  this,  he  seated  himself  in  his  fw 
arm-chair,   filled   and   lighted  a  pipe,   :  m  1  smoked  it  out,  staring  i< 
ively   at  the  fire  as   long  as  his  tobacco  lasted.     "  What  can  that  man 
Marks  want  with  me  ?"  thought  the  barrister.     "  Ho  is  afraid,  to  die  un- 
til he  has  made  a  confession,  perhaps.     H(  wishes  to  tell  me  that  which 
I  know  already — the  story  of  my  lady's  crime.     I  knew  thai  ha  was  in 
the  secret.     I  was  sure  of  it  even  upon  the  night  on  which  I  fir.'" 
him.     He  knew  the  secret,  and  ho  traded  on  it." 

bert    Audley   shrank   strangely   from    returning 
should  he  meet  Clara  Talbo;  'hat  he  knew  the  secret  of  he 

ther's  fete?     How  man  hould  have  to  tell,  or  how  much 

vocatiorf  he  must  use  in  order  to  keep  the  truth  from  her  !     Yd  would 
there  be  any  mercy  in  telling  that  horrible 
must  east  a  blight  upon  her  youth,  and  blot     l 
aeoretly  cherished  1     II     'new  by  h  M<  ■' 


270  CAJ3T   AUDLETS  SECRET 

* 

was  (o  hope  against  hope,  and  to  hope  unconsciously  ;  and  he  could  not 
bear  that  her  heart  should  be  crushed  as  his  had  been. by  the  knowledge 
of  the  truth.  "Better  that  she  should  hope  vainly  to  the  last,"  he 
'thought ;  "  better  that  she  should  go  through  life  seeking  the  clue  to  her 
lost  brother's  fate,  than  that  1  should  give  that  clue  into  her  hands,  and 
say, 'Our  worst  fears  are  realized.  The  brother  you  loved  has  been 
foully  murdered  in  the  early  promise  of  his  youth.'" 

But  Clara  Talboys  had  written  to  him,  imploring  him  to  return  to 
Essex  without  delay.  Could  he  refuse  to  do  her  bidding,  however  pain- 
ful its  accomplishment  might  be?  And  again,  the  man  was  dying,  per- 
haps, and  had  implored  to  see  him.  Would  it  not  be  cruel  to  refuse  to 
go,  to  delay  an  hour  unnecessarily  1  lie  looked  at  his  watch.  It  want- 
ed only  five  minutes  to  nine.  There  ■was  no  train  to  Audley  after  the 
Ipswich  mail,  which  left  London  at  half-past  cio;ht ;  but  there  was  a  train 
that  left'Shoreditch  at  elevari,  and  stopped  at  Brentwood  between  twelve 
and  one.  Robert  decided  upon  going  by  this  train,  and  walking  the  dis- 
tance between  Brentwood  and  Audley,  which  was  upwards  of  six  miles. 

Fleet-street  was  quiet  and  lonely  at  this  late  hour,  and  Robert  Aud- 
ley l>eing  in  a' ghost-seeing  mood,  would  have  been  scarcely  astonished 
had  he  seen  Johnson's  set  come  roystering  westward. in  the  lamp-light^ 
or  blind  John  Milton  groping  his  way  down  the  steps  before  Saint 
Bride's  church. 

Mr.  Audley  hailed  a  hansom  at  the  corner  of  Farringdon-street,  and 
was  rattled  rapidly'  away  across  tenantless  Smithfield  market,  and  into 
a  labyrinth  of  dingy  streets  that  brought  him  out  upon  the  broad  gran- 
deur of  Finsbury  Pavement. 

The  hansom  rattled  up  the  steep  and  stony  approach  to  the.  Shoreditch 
station,  and  deposited  Robert  at  the  doors  of  that  unlovely  temple. 
There  were  very  few  people  going  to  travel  by  this  midnight  train,  and 
Robert  walked  up  and  down  the  long  wooden  platform,  reading  the  huge 
advertisements  whose  gaunt  lettering  looked  wan  and  ghastly  in  the  dim 
lamplight. 

He  had  the  carriage  in  which  he  sat  all  to  himself.  All  to  himself, 
did  I  say  ?  Had  he  not  lately  summoned  to  his  side  that  ghostly  com- 
pany which  of  all  companionship  is  the  most  tenacious  1  The  shadow 
of  George  Talboys  pursued  him,  even  in  the  comfortable  first-class  car- 
riage, and  was  behind  him  when  he  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  was 
yet  far  away  ahead  of  him  and  the  rushing  engine,  in  that  thicket  toward 
which  the  train  was  speeding,  by  the  side  of  the  unhallowed  hiding-place  in 
which  the  mortal  remains  of  the  dead  man  lay,  neglected  and  uncared  for. 

"  I  must  give  my  lost  friend  decent  burial,"  Robert  thought,  as  the 
chill  wind  swept  across  the  flat  landscape,  and  struck  him  with  such 
frozen  breath  as  might  have  emanated  from  the'  lips  of  the  dead.  "  I 
must  do  it;  or  I  shall  die  of  some  panic  like  this  which  has  seized  upon 
me  to-night.  I  must  do  it ;  at  any  peril ;  at  any  .cost.  Even  at  the 
price  of  that  revelation  which  will  bring  the  mad  wo'man  back  from  her 
Safe  hiding-place,  and  place  her  in  a  criminal  dock."  He  was  glad  when 
the  train  stopped  at  Brentwood  at  a  few  minutes  after  twelve, 


L/VDY   ADDLEYtS  iECREf:  271 

It  was  half-past  one  o'clock  when  the  night  wanderer  entered  the  vil- 
lage of  Audley,  and  it  was  only  there  that  he  remembered   that   Clara 
Talboys  had  omitted  to  give  him  any   direction  by  which  lie  might  find 
>6tage  in  which  Luke  Marks  lay. 

"  It  was  Mr.  Dawson  who  recommended  that  the  poor  creature  should 
be  taken  to  his  mother's  cottage,"  Robert  thought,   byandl>\  . 
dare  say,  Dawson  has  attended  him  ever  since  the  fire.     Ile!ll   be   able 
to  tell  me  the  way  to  the  cottage." 

Acting  upon  this  idea,  Mr.  Audley  stopped  at  the  hou.se  in  which 
Helen  Talboys  had  lived  before  her  second  marriage.  The  door  of  the 
little  surgery  was  ajar,  and  there  was  n  light  burning  within.  Ro 
pushed  the  door  open  and  peeped  in.  The  surgeon  was  standing  at  the 
mahogany  counter,  mixing*  draught  in  a  glass  measure,  with  his  hat 
close  beside  him.     Late  as  it  was,  ho  had  evidently  only  I  ie  in. 

The  harmonious  snoring  of  his  assistant  sounded  from  a  little  room  wiih- 
in  the  surgery.  , 

"  I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you,  Mr.  Dawson,"  Robert  sai  I, 
ly,  as  the  surgeon  looked  up  and  recognized  him,  "  but  i    h  i 
down  to  sec  Marks,  who,  I  hear,  is  in  a  very  bad  way,  and   I   want 
to  tell  me  the  way  to  his  mother's  cottage." 

"Til  show  you  the  way,  Mr.  Audley,"  answered  the  surgeon,   "  1 
going  there  this  minute."  » 

"  The  man  is  very  bad,  then  V 

"  So  bad  that  he  can  be  no  worse.  The  change  that  can  happen  is 
that  change  which  will  take  him  beyond  the  reach  of  any  earthly  suf- 
fering." ' 

"  Strange !"  exclaimed  Robert.  "  He  did  not  appear  to  be  much 
burnt." 

'•  lie  was  not  much  burnt.  Had  he'been  I  should  never  have  recom- 
mended his  being  .removed  from  Mount  Stanning.  It  is  tin-  shock  that 
has  done  the  business.     lie  has  been  in  a  r  r  for  the  last  tarf 

days ;  but  to-night  he  is  much  calmer,  and  I'm  afraid,  bcr     i  to-moi 
night,  we  shall  have  seen  the  last  of  him." 

•'  He  has  asked  to  see  me,  I  am  told,"  said  Mr.   ' 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  surgeon,  carelessly.     "  A  sick   man's  fanc\ 
doubt.     You  dragged  him  out  of  the  house,  and  did  your  best   to 
his  life.     I  dare  say,  rough  and  boorish  as  the  poor  fellow  is,   he  thinks 
a  good  deal  of  that." 

They  had  left  the  surgery,  the  door  of  which  Mr.  Dawson  had  lo 
behind  him.     There  was  money  in  the  till,  perhaps,  for  sufely   the  vil- 
lage apothecary  could  not  have  feared  that  the  most  darin 
would  imperil  his  liberty  in  the  pursuit  of  blue  pill  and 
salts  and  senna. 

The  surgeon  led  the  w  the  silent  street,  and  presently  t 

into  a  lane  at  the  end  of  which  Robert  Audley  saw  the  wan  glimmer  of 
alight; — a  light  which  told   of  the  watch   that  is  kept  b\ 
dying;  a  pale,  melancholy  light,  which  always  has  a 
looked  upon  in   this  silent  hour  betwixt  night  and  mom.  none 


272  LADY   AUDLEY'6  SECRET. 

from  the  window  of  the  cottage  in  which  Luke  Marks  lay,  watched  by 
his  wife  and  mother.  . 

Mr.  Dawson  lifted  the  latch,  and  walked  into  -the  common  room  of 
the  little  tenement,  followed  by  Robert  Audley.  it  was  empty, -but  a 
feeble  tallow  candle,  with  a  broken  back,  and  a  long,  eaulifiuwer-headed 
wick,  sputtered  upon  the  tabic.     The  sick  man  lay  in  the  room  above. 

"Shall  I 'tell  him  you  are  here?"  asked  Mr.  Dawson. 

"Yes,  yes,  if  you  please.  But  bo  cautious  how  you  tell  him,  if  you 
think  the  news  likely  to  agitate  him.  I  'am  in  no  hurry.  I  can  wait. 
You  can  call  me  when  you  think  I  can  safely  come  up-stairs." 

The  surgeon  nodded,  and  softly  ascended  the  narrow  wooden  stairs 
leading  to  the  upper  chamber. 

Robert  Audley  seated  himself  in  a  Windsor  chair  by  the  cold  hearth- 
stone, and  stared  disconsolately  about  him.  But  he  was  relieved  at  last 
by  the  low  voice  of  the  surgeon,  who  looked  down  from  the  top  of  the 
little  staircase  to  tell  him  that  Luke  Marks  was  awake,  and  would  be 
glad  to  see  him. 

Robert  immediately  obeyed  this  summons.  He  crept  softly  up  the 
stairs,  and  took  off  Kis  hat  before  he  bent  his  head  to  enter  at  the  low 
doorway  of  the  humble  rustic  chamber. .  He  took  off  his  hat  in  the  pre- 
sence of  this  common  peasant-man,  because  he  knew  that  there  was  an- 
other and  a  more  awful  presence  hovering  about  the  room,  and  eager  to 
be  admitted. 

Phoebe  Marks  was  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  with  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  her  husband's  face, — >not  with  any  very  tender  expression  in  their 
pale  light,  but  with  a  sharp,  terrified  anxiety,  which  showed  that  it  was 
the  coming  of  death  itself  that  she  dreaded,  rather  than  the  loss  of  her 
husband.  The  old  woman  was  busy  at  the  fire-place,  airing  linen,  and 
preparing  some  mess  of  broth  which  it  was  not  likely  the  patient  would 
ever  eat.  The  sick  man  lay  with  his. head  prppped  up  by  pillows,  his 
coarse  face  deadly  pale,  and  his  great  hands  wandering  uneasily  about 
ithe  coverlet.  Phcebe  had  been  reading  to  him,  for  an  open  Testament 
lay  amongst  the  medicine  and  lotion  Tottles  upon  the  table  near  the  bed. 
Every  Qbject  in  the  room  was  neat  and  orderly,  and  bore  witness  of  that 
delicate  precision  which  had  always  been  a  distinguishing  characteristic 
of  Phcebe.  ' 

The  young  woman  rose  as  Robert  Audley  crossed  the  threshold,  and 
hurried  toward  him. 

"  Let  me  speak  to  you  for  a  moment,  sir,  before  you  talk  to  Luke," 
she  said,  in  an  eager  whisper.     "  Pray  let  me  speak  to  you  first." 

"  What's  the  gal  a  sayin',  there  ?"  asked  the  invalid  in  a  subdued  roar, 
which  died  away  hoarsely  ou  his  lips.  He  was  feebly  savage,  even  in 
his  weakness.  The  dull  glaze  of  death  was  gathering  over  his  eyes,  but 
they  still  watched  Phcebe  with  a  sharp  glance  of  dissatisfaction*  "What's 
she  up  to  there?"  he  said.  UI  won't  have  no  plottin'  and  no  hatchin' 
ageu  me.  I  want  to  speak  to  Mr.  Audley  my  own  self-,  and  whatever  I 
done  I'm  a  goin'  to  answer  for.  If  I  done  any  mischief,  I'm  a  goin'  to 
try  and  undo  it.     What's  she  a  sayin'  f 


LADY   DUDLEY'S  SECRET.  273 

"  She  ain't  a  sayin'  nothin'  lovey,"  answered  the  old  woman,  going  to 
the  bedside  of  her  son,  who,  even  when  made  more  interesting  than  usual 
by  illness,  did  not  seem  a  very  fit  subject  for  this  tender  appellation. 

"  She's  only  a  tellin'  the  gentleman  how  bad  you've  been,  my 
pretty." 

"What  Vm  a  goin'  to  tell  I'm  only  a  goin'  to  tell  to  him,  rememb 
growled  Mr.  Marks;  "and  ketch  me  a  tellin'  of  it  to  him  if  it  warn't 
lor  what  he  done  for  me  the  other  night." 

"To  be  sure  nut,  lovey,"  answered  the  old  wdman,  soothingly. 

Phoebe  .Murks  had  drawn  Mr.  Audley  out,  of  the  room  and  on  to  the 
narrow  landing  at  the  top  of  the  little  stair-case.  This  landing  was  a 
platform  of  about  three  feet  square,  and  it  was  as  much  as  the-  i  wo  could 
manage  to  stand  upon  it  without  pushing  each  other  against  the  white- 
washed wall,  or  backwards  down  the  stairs. 

"Oh,  sir,  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  so  badly,"  Phoebe  whispered,  ea- 
gerly ;  you  know  what  I  told  you  when  I  found  you  safe  and  well  upon 
the  night  of  the  fire?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"I  told  you  what  I  suspected ;  what  I  think  still." 

"Yes,  I  remember." 

"  But  I  never  breathed  a  word  of  it  to  any  body  biit  you,  sir  ;  and  I 
think  that  Luke  has  forgotten  all  about  that  night ;  1  think  that  what 
went  before  the  fire  has  gone  clean  out  of  his  head  altogether.  He  was 
tipsy,  you  know,  when  my  la — when  she  came  to  the  Castle;  and  I  think 
he  was  so  dazed  and  scared  like  by  the  fire  that  it  all  went  out  of  his 
memory.  He  dosen't  suspect  what  I  suspect,  at  any  rate,  or  he'd  have 
spoken  of  it  to  anybody  and  everybody;  but  he's  dreadful  spiteful 
against  my  lady,  for  he  says  if  she'd  have  let  him  have  a  place  at  Brent- 
wood or  Chelmsford,  this  wouldn't  have  happened.  So  what  I  wanted 
to  beg  of  you,  sir,  is  not  to  let  a  word  drop  before  Luke." 

"Yes,  yes.  I  understand  ;  I  will  bo  careful." 

"  My  lady  has  left  the  Court,  I  hear,  sir  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Never  to  come  back,  sir "?" 

"  Never  to  come  back.." 

"  But  she  has  not  gone  where  she'll  be  cruelly  treated  ;  where  she'll 
be  ill-used  ?" 

"  No  ;  she  will  be  very  kindly  treated." 

"I'm  glad  of  that,  sir;  I  beg  your  pardon  for  troubling  you  with  the 
question,  sir,  but  my  lady  was  a  kind  mistress  to  me." 

Luke's  voice,  husky  and  feeble,  was  heard  within  the  little  chamber 
at  this  period  of  the  ktion,  demanding  angrily   when   "  that  gal 

would  have  done  jawing;"'  upon  which  Phoebe  put  her  finger  to  her  lips 
and  led  Mr.  Audley  back  into  the  sick-l 

"I  don't  want  .>/o?/,''  said  Mr.  Marks,  v,  as  his  wife  i 

the  chamber — "  I  don't  want  you  :  you're  no  'ill  to  hear  wial 
to  say — I  only  want  Mr.  Audiey.  and  I  wants  to    peak  to  him  all  a, 
with  none  o'  your  snoakin'  listenin'  at  doors,  d'yo  hear  ?  so  you  may  go 

18 


274  LAD?  AlTDLET'S  SECRET 

down  stairs  and  keep  there  till  you're  wanted ;  and  you  may  take  moth- 
er— no,  mother  may  stay,  I  shall  want  her  presently." 

The  sick  man's  feeble  hand  pointed  to  the  door,  through  which  his 
wife  departed  very  submissively. 

"  I've  no  wish  to  hear  any  thing,  Luke,"  she  said,  "but  I  hope  you. 
won't  say  anything  against  those  that  have  been  good  and  generous  to  you.'* 

"I  shall  say  what  I  like,"  answered  Mr.  Marks,  fiercely,  "  and  I'm  not 
agoin'  to  be  ordered  by  you.  You  ain't  the  parson,  as  I've  ever  heerd 
of;  nor  the  lawyer  neither." 

The  landlord  of. the  Castle  Inn  had  undergone  no  moral  transformation, 
by  his  death-bed  sufferings,  fierce  and  rapid  as  they  had  been.  Perhaps 
some  faint  glimmer  of  a  light  that  had  been  far  off  from  his  life  trow 
struggled  feebly  through  the  black  obscurities  of  ignorance  that  dark- 
ened his  soul.  Perhaps  a  half  angry,  half  sullen  penitence  urged  him  to 
make  some  rugged  effort  to  atone  for  a  life  that  had  been  selfish  and 
drunken  and  wicked.  Be  it  how  it  might,  he  wiped  his  white  lips,  and 
turning  his  haggard  eyes  earnestly  upon  Robert  Audley,  pointed  to  a 
chair  by  the  bedside. 

"  You've  made  game  of  me  in  a  general  way,  Mr.  Audley,"  he  said, 
presently,  "  and  you've  drawed  me  out,  and  you've  tumbled  and  tossed 
me  about  like  in  a  gentlemanly  way,  till  I  was  nothink  or  anythink  in 
your  hands ;  and  yfu've  looked  me  through  and  through,  and  turned  me 
inside  out  till  you  thought  you  knowed  as  much  as  I  knowed.  I'd  no 
particular  call  to  be  grateful  to  you,  not  before  the  fire  at  the  Castle 
t'other  night.  But  1  am  grateful  to  you  for  that.  I'm,  not  grateful  to 
folks  in  a  general  way,  p'raps,  because  the  things  as  gentlefolks  have 
give  me  have  a'most  alius  been  the  very  things  I  didn't  want.  They've 
give  me  soup,  and  tracks,  and  flannel,  and  coals ;  but,  Lord,  they've 
made  such  a  precious  noise  about  it  that  I'd  have  been  glad  to  send  'em 
all' hack  to  'em.  But  when  a  gentleman  goes  and  puts  his  own  life  in 
danger  to  save  a  drunken  brute  like  me,  the  drunkenest  brute  as  ever 
was  feels  grateful  like  to  that  gentleman,  and  wishes  to  say  before  he 
dies — which  he  sees  in  the  doctor's  face  as  he  ain't  got  long  to  live — 
'  Thank  ye,  sir,  I'm  obliged  to  you." 

Luke  Marks  stretched  out  his  left  hand — the  right  hand  had  been  in- 
jured by  the  fire,  and  was  wrapped  in  linen — and  groped  feebly  for  that 
of  Mr.  Robert  Audley. 

The  young  man  took  the  coarse  but  shrunken  hand  in  both  his  own, 
/and  pressed  it  cordially. 

"  I  need  no  thanks,  Luke  Marks,"  he  said  ;  "  I  was  very  glad  to  be 
ot  service  to  you." 

Mr.. Marks  did  not  speak  immediately.  He, teas  lying  quietly  upon 
his  side,  staring  reflectingly  at  Robert  Audley. 

"  You  was  oncommon  fond  of  that  gent  as  disappeared  at  the  Court, 
warn't  you,  sir,"  he  said  at  last. 

Robert  started  at  the  mention  of  his  dead  friend. 

"  You  was  oncommon  fond  of  this  Mr.  Talboys,  I've  heerd  say,  sir," 
repeated  Luke. 


LADY   AUDREY'S  SECRET  275 

"Yes,  yes,"  answered  .  Robert,  rather  impatiently,  "he  was  my  very 
dear  friend." 

"  I've  heerd  the  servants  at  the  Court  say  how  you  took  on  when  you 
couldn't  find  him.  I've  heerd  the  landlord  of  the  Sun  Inn  say  how  cul 
up  you  was  when  you  first  missed  him.  'If  the  two  gents  had  lieen 
brothers,'  the  landlord  said,  'our  gent,'  meanin'  you,  sir,  'couldn't  have 
been  more  cut  up  when  lie  n  r.'  " 

'•  Yes,  yes,  I  know,  1  know."  said  Robert;  "pray  do  not  speak  any 
more  of  this  subject ;  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  it  distresses  me." 

Was  he  to  bev  haunted  for  ever  by  the  ghost  of  his  unburied  frh 
He  came  here   to   comfort  the  sick   man,  and  oven  here  he  was  pursued 
by   that  relentless  shadow ;  even  here  he  was  reminded  of  the  secret 
crime  which  had  darkened  his  life. 

"Listen  to  me.  Marks,"  he  said,  earnestly;  "believe  me,  that  I  ap- 
preciate your  grateful  words,  and  that  I  am  very  glad  to  have  been  of 
service  to  you.  But  before  y#ou  say  anything  more,  let  me  make  one 
most  solemn  request.  If  you  have  sent  for  me  that  you  may  tell  me 
anything  of  the 'fate  of  my  lost  friend,  I  entreat  you  to  spare  yourself 
and  to  spare  me  that  horrible  story.  You  can  tell  me  nothing  which  I 
do  not  already  know.  The  worst  you  can  tell  me  of  the  woman  who 
was  once  in  your  power,  has  already  been  revealed  to  me  by  her  own 
lips.  Pray'  then  be  silent  upon  this  subject;  I  say  again,  you  can  tell 
me  nothing  which  I  do  not  know." 

Luke  Marks  looked  musingly  at  the  earnest  face  of  his  visitor,  and 
some  shadowy  expression  which  was  almost  like  a  smile  flitted  feebly 
across  the  sick  man's  haggard  features. 

"I  can't  tell  you  nothin'  you  don't  know?"  he  asked. 

"  Nothing." 

"  Then  it  ain't  no  good  for  me  to  try,"  said  the  invalid,  thoughtfully. 
"  Did  fhe  tell  you  ?"  he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"I  must  beg,  Marks,  that  you  will  drop  the  subject,"  Robert  answer- 
ed, almost  sternly.  "I  have,  already  told  you  that  I  do  not  wish  to  hear 
it  spoken  of.  Whatever  discoveries  you  made,  you  made  your  market 
out  of  them.     Whatever  guilty  secrets  you  got  |  »n  of.  yon  were 

paid  for  keeping  silence.     You  had  better  k  to  the*<nd." 

"  Had  1?"  cried  Luke  Marks,  in  an  eager  whisper.  "  Had  I  rcally 
now  better  hold, my  tongue  to  the  last?" 

"  I  think  so,  most  decidedly.     You,  traded   on  sret,  and 

were  paid  to  keep  it.     It  would  be  more  honest  to  hold  to  your  bargain, 
and  keep  it  still." 

"  But  suppose  I  want  to  tell  somethin'."  cried  Luke,  with  feverish  en- 
ergy, "suppose  I  feel  that  I  can't  die  with  a  secret  on  my  mind,  and  i 
asked  to  see  you  on    purpose  that  I  might  tell  you  ;  sup;  and 

you'll  suppose   nothing  but  the  truth.      I"d  have  born  burnt  alii 
I'd  have  told  her."     He   spoke   tho«e   word  tl  his  set  te^th,  and 

scowled  saVagely  as  he  uttered  them.     "  I'd  have  boon  burnt  alive 
I  made  her  pay  for  herprettv  insolent  ways;  I  made  her  pay  forhei 
and  graces;  I'd  never  have  told  her—  wer 


276  LADY  AUDLETS  SECRET 

over  her,  and  I  kept  it ;  I  had  my. secret,  and  was  paid  for  it ;  and  there- 
wasn't  a  petty  slight  as  she  ever  put  upon  me  or  mine  that  I  didn't  pay 
her  out  for  twenty  times  over !" 

"Marks,  Marks,'  for  heaven's  sake  be  calm,"  said  Robert,  earnestly  ; . 
"what  are.  you  talking  of?     What  is  it  that  you  could  have  told  ?.".. 

"I'm  agoin'  to  tell  you,"  answered  Luke,  wiping  his  lips.  "  Give  us 
a  drink,  mother." 

The  old  woman  poured  out  some  cooling  drink  into  a  mug,  and  car-  • 
ried  it  to  her  son. 

He  drank  it  in  an  eager  hurry,  as  if  he  felt  that  the  brief  remainder 
of  his  life  must  be  a  race  with  the  pitiless  pedestrian,  Time. 

"  Stop  where  you  are,"  he  said  to  his  mother,  pointing  to  a  chair  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed. 

The  old  woman  obeyed,  and  seated  herself  meekly  opposite  to  Mr. 
Audley. 

"  I'll  ask  you  another  question,  mother,"  said  Luke,  "and  I  think  it'll 
be  strange  if  you  can't  answer  it.  » Do  you  remember  when  I  was  at 
work  upon  Atkinson's  farm;  before  I  was  married,  you  know,  and  when 
I  was  livin'  down  here  along  of  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  Mrs.  Marks  answered,  nodding  triumphantly,  "  I  remem- 
ber that,  my  dear.  It  were  last  fall,  just  about  as  the  apples  was  bein' 
gathered  in  the  orchard  across  our  lane,  and  about  the  time  as  you  had 
your  new  sprigged  wesket.     I. remember,  Luke,  I  remember." 

Mr.  Audley  wondered  where  all  this  was  to  lead  to,  and  how  long  he 
would  have  to  sit  by  the  sick  man's  bed,  hearing  a  conversation  that  had 
no  meaning  to  him. 

"  If  you  remember  that  much,  maybe  you'll  remember  more,  mother," 
said  Luke.  "  Can  you  call  to  mind  my  bringing  some  one  home  here 
one  night,  while  Atkinson's  was  stackin'  the  last  o'  their  corn  ?"  • 

Once  more  Mr.  Audley  started  violently,  and  this  time  he  looked 
up  earnestly  at  the  face  of  the  speaker,  and  listened,  with  a  strange, 
breathless  interest,  that  he  scarcely  understood  himself,  to  what  Luke 
Marks  was  saying. 

"  I  rek'lect  your  bringin'  home  Phcebe,"  the  old  woman  answered,  with 
great  animation.  "  I  rek'lect  your  bringin'  Phcebe  home  to  take  a  cup 
o'  tea,  or  a  little  snack  o'  supper,  a  mort  o'  times." 

"  Bother  Phcebe,"  cried  Mr.  Marks,  who's  a  talkin'  of  Phcebe  ?  What's 
Phcebe,  that  anybody  should  go  to  put  theirselves  out  about  her  ?  Do 
you  remember  my  bringin'  home  a  gentleman,  arter  ten  o'clock,  one 
September  night ;  a  gentleman  as  was  wet  through  to  the  skin,  and  was 
covered  with  mud  and  slush,  and  green  slime  and  black  muck,  from  the 
crown  of  his  head  to  the  sole  of  his  foot,  and  had  his  arm  broke,  and  his 
shoulder  swelled  up  awful ;  and  was  such  a  objeck  that  nobody  would 
ha'  knowed  him  ;  a  gentleman  as  had  to  have  his  clothes  cut  off  him  in 
som,e  places,  and  as  sat  by  the  kitchen  fire,  starin'  at  the  coals  as  if  he 
had  gone  mad  or  stupid-like,  and  didn't  know  where  he  was,  or  who  he 
was ;  and  as  had  to  be  cared  for  like  a  baby,  and  dressed,  and  dried,  and 
washed,  and  fed  with  spoonfuls  of  brandy,  that  had  to  be  forced  between 


LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRFT  277 

his  locked  teeth,   before  any  life  could  be  got  into  him?     Do  you  re- 
member that  moth. 

The  old   woman  nodded,  and  muttered  something,  to  the  i  I 
she  remembered  all  these  circumstances  most  vividly,  now  that  Luke 
happened  to  mention  them. 

Robert  Audley  uttered  a  wild  cry,  and  fell  down  upon  his  knees  by 
the  side  of 'the  sick  man's  bed. 

.. ■•"  My  God  !"  he  ejaculate**!,  "  I  thank  Thee  for  Thy  wonderous  men 
George  Talboys  is  alive. !" 

"  Wait  a  bit,"  said  Mr.  Marks,  "don't  you  be  top  fast.     Mother, 
us  down  that  tin  box  on  the  shelf  over  against  the  che>t  of  drawn-  wi!J 
you  T 

The  old  woman  obeyed,  and  after  fumbling,  amongst  broken-tea 
and  milk-jugs,  lidless  wooden  cotton-bo\es,  and  a  miscellaneous  litti 
rags  and  crockery,  produced  a  tin  snuff-box  with  a  sliding  lid  ;  . 
dirty  looking  box  enough. 

Robert  Audley  still  knelt  by  the  bedside  with  his  face  hidden  by  his 
clasped  hands.     Luke  Marks  opened  the  tin  box. 

"There  ain't  no  money  in  it,  more's  the  pity,"  he  said,  "or  if  tl 
had  been  it  wouldn't  have  been  let  stop  very  long.     Bivt  there's  sin 
in  it  that  perhaps  you'll  think  quite  as  vallible  as  money,  (\n<\  that's 
I'm  goin'  to  give  you  as   a   proof  that  a  drunken  brute  can  feel  thankful 
to  them  as  is  kind  to  "him." 

He  took  out  two  folded  papers,  which  he  gave  into  Robert  Aud 
hands. 

They  were  two  leaves  torn  out  of  a  pocket-book,  and  they  were  writ- 
ten upon  in   pencil,  and  in  a  hand-writing  that  was  quite  strange  to  Mr. 
Audley — a  cramped,  stiff,  and  yet  scrawling  hand,  such  as  some  pi- 
man  might  have  written. 

"I  don't  know  this  writing,"  Kobert  said,  as  he  eagerly  unfolded  the 
first  of  the  two  papers.  "  What  has  this  to  do  with  my  friend  ?  Why 
do  you  show  me  these  ?" 

"Suppose  you  read 'em  first," said  Mr.  Marks,  "and  ask  me  quesi 
about  'em  afterwards." 

The  first  paper  which   Robert  Audley  had  unfolded  contained  the  fol- 
lowing lines,  written  in  that  cramped,  yet  scrawling  hand  which  w., 
strange  to  him  : 

"My  dear  Friend — I  write  to  you  in  such  Utter  confusion  of  mi; 
perhaps  no  man   ever  before  suffered.     J  cannot  tell  you  what  has  hap- 
pened to  me,  1  can  only  tell  you  that  something  I  h     .  will 
drive  me  from  England,  a   broken-hearted   i 
the  earth   in   which  I  may  live  and  di?   unknown  and  forgotten 
only  ask  you  to  forget  me..     If  your  friendship  could  have  done  m< 
good,  I  would  have  appealed-  to  it.     If  yon: 
any  help  to  me,  I  woul  I   havi                 i  in  you.     Hut  neither  fi 

n  help  m° ;  and  all  '  this,  <  you 

for  the  past,  and  teach  you  to  forget  me  in  the  future.  T." 


'278  i-ADY   AIJDLEY'S  SECRET. 

The  second  paper  was  Addressed. to  another  person,' and  its  com 
were  briefer  than  those -of  the  first. 

"Helen: — May  God  pity  and  forgive  you  lor  that  which  you  have 
done  to-day,  as  truly  as  I  do.  Rest  in  peace.  You  shall  never  hear  ui' 
me  again;  to  you  and  to  the  world  1  shall  henceforth  be  that  which  you 
wished  me  to  be  to-day.  You  need  fear  no  molestation  frtom  me  :  I 
leave  England  never  to  return.  '  "  G.  T." 

Robert  Audley  sat  staring  at  these  lines  in  hopeless  bewilderment. 
They  were  not  in  his  friend's  familiar  hand  ;  and  yet  they  purported  to 
be  written  by  him  and  were  signed  with  his  initials. 

He  looked  scrutinizingly  at  the  face  of  Luke  Marks,  thinking  that  per- 
haps some  trick  was  being  played  upon  him. 

-'  This  was  not  written  by  George  Talboys,"  he  said. 

"  It  was,"  answered  Luke  Marks,  "  it  was  written  by  Mr.  Talboys, 
every  line  of  it ;  he  wrote  it  with  his  own  hand  ;  but  it  %vas  his  left 
hand,  for  he  couldn't  use  his  right  because  of  his  broken  arm." 

Robert  Audley  looked  up  suddenly,  and  the  shadow  of  suspicion  passed 
away  from  his  face. 

"  I  understand,"  he  said,  "  I  understand.  Tell  me  all ;  tell  me  how 
it  was  that  my  poor  friend  was  saved." 

■  "  I  wras  at  work  up  at  Atkinson's  .farm  last  September,"  said  Luke 
Marks,  "  helpin'  to  stack  the  last  o'  the  corn,  and  as  the  nighe.st  way 
from  the  farm  to  mother's  cottage  was  through  the  meadows  at  the  back 
o1  the  Court,  I  used  to  come  that  way :  and  Phoebe  used  to  stand  at  the 
gate  in  the  garden  wall  beyond  the  lime-walk,  sometimes,  to  have  a  chat 
with  me,  knowin'  my  time  o'  comin'  home. 

"I  don't  know  what  Phoebe  was  a  doin'  upon  the  evenin'  of  the  sev- 
enth o'  September — I  rek'lect  the  date  because  Farmer  Atkinson  paid 
me  my  wages  all  of  a  lump  on  that  day,  and  I'd  had  to  sign  a  bit  of  a 
receipt  for  the  money  he  give  me — I  don't  know  what  she  was  a  doin', 
but  she  warn't  at  the  gate  agen  the  lime-walk,  so  I  went  round  to  the 
other  side  o'  the  gardens  and  jumped  across  the  dry  diteh;  for  I  wanted 
partio'ler  to  see  her  that  night,  as  I  was  goin'  away  to  work  upon  a  farm 
beyond  Chelmsford  the  next  day.  Audley  church  clock  struck  nine  as  I 
was  crossin'  the  meadows  between  Atkinson's  and  the  Court,  and  it  must 
have  been  about  a  quarter  past  nine  when  I  got  into  the  kitchen  garden. 

"I  crossed  the  garden,  and  went  into  the  'lime-walk  ;  the  nighest  way 
to  the  servants'  hall  took  me  through  the  shrubbery  and  past  the  dry 
well.  It  was  a  dark  night,  but  I  knew  my  way  well  enough  about  the 
.old  place,  and  the  light  in  the  window  of  the  servant's  hall  looked  red 
and  comfortable  through  the  darkness.  I  was  close  against  the  mouth 
of  the  dry  well  when  I  heard  a  sound  that  made  rny  blood  creep.  It 
was  a  groan  ;  a  groan  of  a  man  in  pain,  as  was  lyin'  somewhere  hid 
among  the  bushes.  I  warn't  afraid  of  ghosts  and  I  warn't  afraid  of  any 
think  in  a  general  way,  but  there  was  somethin'  in  hearin'  this  groan  as 
chilled  me  to  the  very  heart,  and  for  a  minute  I  was  struck  all  of  a  heap7", 


LAD?   AUDLKV't  SECRET  2  7f> 

and  didn't  know  what  to  do..   But  I  fyeard  the  |  i;n,  and   then  I 

began  to  search  amongst  ihc  blisheS.     I  found  a  man  lyin'  hid 
a  lot  o-  lai  i  1  thought  a't  first  lie  was  up  to  no  good, 

lar  him  to  take  him   to   the   I 
the'w^fet  without  gettin'' up  from  .the  ground,   but  lookin'  a.i 
earnest,  as  i  could  he  way  his  face  was  turned  toward  me  in  the 

darkness,  and  asked  mo  who  1  was.  and  what  1  was,  and  what  I  had  to 
do  with  the  folks  at  the  Court. 

"There  was  somethip'  in  the  way  he  spoke  that  told  me  he  was  a 
tleman,  though  I  didn't,  know  him  from  Adam,  and  eouldn't  si  e  hit 
and  I  answered  his  questions  civil. 

••'  1  want  to  gel  away  from  this  place;'  %   said,    'without   1  i 
by  any  livin'  creetur.  reiftember  th  t.     I've  been   lyin'   here   ever 
four  o'clock  to-day,  and  I'm  half  dead,  but  I   want  to  get  away  without 
In  in'  seen,  mind  that.' 

"  I  told   him    that   was   easy   enough,   but  I  began  to  thinkmv  first 
thoughts   of  him   might  have   been  right  enough,  after  all,  and  tl 
couldn't  have  been  up  to  no  good  to  want  to   sneak   away  so  precious 
quiet. 

"'  Can  you  take  me  to  any  place  where  I  can  get  a  chango  of  dry 
clothes,'  he  says,  '  without  half  a  dozen  people  knowin'  it?' 

';  He'd  got  up  into  a  sittin'  attitude  by  this  time,  and  I  could  see  that 
his  right  arm  hung  loose  by  his  side,  and  that  he  was  in  pain. 

"  1  pointed  to  his  arm,  and  asked  him  what  was  the   matter   with   it  • 
but  he  only  answered  \'ery  quiet  like,  'Broken,  my   lad,  broken. 
that  that's  much,'  he  says  in  another  tone,  speaking  to  himself  like,  more 
than  to  me.     '  There's  broken  hearts  as  well  as  broken  limbs,  and  they're 
not  so  easy  mended.' 

"I  told  him  I  could  take  him  to  mother's  cottage,  and  that  he  could 
f  dry  his  clothes  there  and  welcome. 

"  '  Can  your  mother  keep  a  secret  V  he  asked. 

"'Well,  she  could  keep  one  well  enough,  if  she  could  remember  it' 
I  told  him  ;  'but  you  might  tell  her  the  secrets  of  all   the  Fn 
and  Foresters,  and  Bufialers,  and  Oddfellers  as  ever  was,  to-night  ■ 
she'd  have  forgotten  all  about  'em  to-morrow  mornin'.' 

"  He  seemed  satisfied  with  this,  and  he  got  himself  up  by  holdin'  on 
to  me,  for  it  setfmed  as  if  his  limbs  was  so  cramped,  the  use  of  'em  \\;is 
almost  gone.  I  felt  as  he  came  agen  me,  that  his  clothes  was  wet  and 
mucky. 

'"You  haven't  been  and  fell  into  the  fish-pond,  have  you,  sir }'  I 
asked. 

"  He  made  no  answer  to  my  question  ;  he  didn't  seem  even  to  have 
heard  it.  I  could  see  now  he  was  standin'  upon  his  feet  that  he  was  a 
tall,  fine-mr.de  man,  a  head  and  should  than  me. 

"'Take  me  fo  your  mother's  cottage,'  h<-  said,  'and  get  me  some  dry 
clothes  if  you,  can  ;  I'M  pay  you  well  for  your  trouble.' 

"  I  knew  thai  the  key  ft   in  the  wooden  gate  in  the  gar- 

den wall,  so  I  led  him  that  way.     He  could  scarcely  walk  a!   first. 


280  .  .     LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET. 

it  was  only  by  leanin'  heavily  upon  my  shoulder  that  he  managed  to  get 
along..  I  got  him  through  the  gate,  leav in'. it  unlocked  behind  me,  and' 
trustin'  to  the  chance  of*  that  not-  bein'-  noticed: by  the  under-gardener, 
who  had  the  care  of  the  key,  and  was  a  careless  chap  enough.  I  took 
him  across  the  meadows,  and  brought  him  up  here,  still  keepin' away 
from  the  village,  and  in.  the  fields,  where  there  wasn't  a  creature  to  see 
us  at  that  time  o'  night ;  and  so  I  got  him  into  the  room  down-stairs, 
where  mother  was  a  sittih'  over  the  lire  gettin'  my  bit  o'  supper  ready 
for  me.    • 

*"*I  put  the  strange  chap  in  a  chair  agen  the  fire,  and  then  for  the  first 
time  I  had  a  good  look  at  him.  I  never  see  anybody  in  such  a  state  be- 
fore. He  was  all  over  greenfdamp  and  muck,  and  his  hands  was  scratch- 
ed and  cut  to  pieces.  I  got  his  clothes  off  him  how  I  could,  for  he  was 
like  a  child  in  my  hands,  and  sat  starin'  at  the  fire  as  helpless  as  any 
baby ;  only  givin'  a  long  heavy  sigh  now  and  then,  as  if  his  heart  was  a 
goin'  to  bust.  At  last  he  dropped  into  a  kind  of  a  doze,  a  stupid  sort  of 
sleep,  and  began  to  nod  over  the  fire,  so  I  ran  and  got  a  blanket  and 
wrapped  him  in  it,  and  got  him  to  lie  down  upon  the  press  bedstead  in 
the  room  under  this.  I  sent  mother  to  bed,  and  I  sat  by  the  fire  and 
watched  him,  and  kep'  the  fire  up  till  it  was  jlist  upon  daybreak,  when 
he  'woke  up  all  of  a  sudden  with  a  start,  and  said  he  must  go,  directly 
minute. 

"  I  begged  him  not  to  think  of  such  a  thing,  and  told  him  he  warn't 
fit  to  move  for  ever  so  long  ;  but  he  said  he  must  go,  and  he  got  up,  and 
though  he  staggered  like,  and  at  first  could  hardly  stand  steady  two  mi- 
nutes together,  "he  wouldn't  be  beat,  and  he  got  me  to  dress  him  in  his 
clothes  as  I'd  dried  and  cleaned  as  well  as  I  could  while  he  laid  asleep. 
I  did  manage  it  at  last,  but  the  clothes  was  awful  spoiled,  and  he  looked 
a  dreadful  objeck,  with  his  pale  face  and  a  great  cut  on  his  forehead  that 
I'd  washed  and  tied  up  with  a  handkercher.  He  could  only  get  his  coat 
on  by  buttoning  on  it  round  his  neck,  for  he  couldn't  put  a  sleeve  upon 
his  broken  arm.  But  he  held  out  agen  everything,  though  he  groaned 
every  now  and  then  ;  and  what  with  the  scratches  and  bruises  on  his 
hands,  and  the  cut  upon  his  forehead,  and  his  stiff  limbs  and  his  broken 
arm,  he'd  plenty  of  call  to  groan ;  and  by  the  time  it  was  broad  daylight 
he  was  dressed  and  ready  to  go. 

"  '  What's  the  nearest  town  to  this  upon  the  London  road  V  he  ask- 
ed me. 

"  I  told  him  as  the  nighest  town  was  Brentwood. 

"  '  Very  well,  then,'  he  says,  '  if  you'll  go  with  me  to  Brentwtmd,  and 
take  me  to  some  surgeon  as  '11  set  my  arm,  I'll  give  you  a  five-pound 
note  for  that  and  all  your  other  trouble.' 

"  I  told  him  that  I  was  ready  and  willin'  to  do  anything  as  he  wanted 
done;  and  asked  him  if  I  shouldn't  go  and  see  if  I  could  borrow  a  cart 
from  some  of  the  neighbors  to  drive  him  over  in,  for  I  told  him  it  was  a 
good  six  miles'  walk.  . 

"  He  shook  his  head.  No,  no,  no,  he  said,  he  didn't  want  anybody  to 
know  anything  about  him  ;  he'd  rather  walk  it. 


laDt  audlevs  seceet.  281 

':  He  did  walk  it ;  aud  ho  walked  like  a  good  un,  too  ;  though  I  know 
as  every  step  he"  took  o'  them  six  mile  Ik   ;  .     .;  out 

as  he'd  held  out  before;  I  never  see  such  a  out  in   all   my' 

blessed  life.     He  hail  to  stop  sometimes  and  Ipan  agen  a  gateway  i  i 
his  breath;  but  he  held  out  still,  till  at  last  we  got  ii 
then  he  says,  'Take  me  to  the  nlghest  .  1  1  took  him,  and   I 

waited  while  he  had  his  arm  set  i'i  which   took  a   precious  long 

time.'    The  surgeon  wanted  him  to  slay  in  Brentwood   till   he  was 
ter,  but  he  said  it  warn't  to  be  heard  on,  he  must  get  uj>  t<>  Lon 
without  a  minute's  loss  of  time;  so  tin-  surgeon  made  him  as  comforta- 
ble as  he  could,  considerin',  and  tied  up  Ins  arm  in  a  sling." 

Robert  Audlcv  start. 'd.     A  circumstance  connected  with  his   visit  to 
Liverpool  flashed  suddenly  hack   upon  his  memory.     He  rememl 
the  clerk  who  had  called  him  back  to  say  thai,   there   was  a 
who  took  his  berth  on  board  the  Victoria.  Regia  within  an  hour  or 
the  vessel's  sailing;  a  young  man  with  his  arm  in  a  sling,  who  had  call- 
ed himself  by  some  common  name,  which  Robert  h 

"When  his  arm  was  dressed,"  continued  Luk*,   "  i  the  sur- 

geon, '  Can  you  give  me  a  pencil  to  write  something  before  1  go  a* 
The  surgeon  smiles  and  shakes  his  head  :  '  You'll  never  be  able  to  write 
with  that  there  hand  to-day,'  he  says,  pointin'  to  the  arm  as  had  just 
been  dressed.  '  P'raps  not,'  the  young  chap  answers,  quiet  enough,  '  but 
1  can  write  with  the  other.'  '  Can't  /write  it  for  you  ."  says  the  sur- 
geon. 'No,  thank  you,' answers  the  other;  '  what  I've  got  to  write  is 
private.  If  you  can  give  me  a  couple  of  envelopes,  I'll  be  obligi 
you.' 

"  With  that  the  surgeon  goes  to  fetch  the  envelopes,  and  the  young 
takes  a  pocketbook  out  of  his  coat  pocket  with  his   left  hand  ; 
cover  was  wet  and  dirty,  but  the  inside  was  clean  enough,  and  he  I 
out  a  couple  of  leaves  and  begins  to  write  upon  'em  as  you  see  ;  and  he 
writes  dreadful  awk'ard  with  his  left  hand,  and   he  writes  slow,  h 
contrives  to  finish  what  you  see,  and  then  be  puts  the  two  bits  <»'  writin' 
into  the  envelopes  as  the  surgeon  brings  him.  and  be  and 

he  puts  a  pencil  cross  upon  one  of 'em,  and  nothing  on  tho  other  ;  and 
then  he  pays  the  surgeon   for  his  tlrouble,  and  the  surgeon  says,  ain't 
there  nothin'  more  he  can  do  for  him,  and  can't  he  persuade  hii 
in  Brentwood  till  his  arm's  better  ;  but  he    ays  no,  no.  it  ain't  poM 
and  then  he  says  to  me,  '  Come  along  o'  me  to  the  railway  station 
I'll  give  you  what  I've  promised.' 

So  I  went  to  the  station  with  him.     We  was  in   time 
train  as  stops  at  Brentwood  at  half  after  eight,  end  ire  had  fir< 
to  spare.     So  b  ■  r  of  the  platform,  and  h 

wan's  you  to  deliver  these  here,  letters  for  •  i   I   told  him  I  was 

willin'.     'Very    well,   then.'  he   says;    'look    !• 
Court  .'"  leys,  'I  ought  t 

there.'      '  Who  maid  .':  ht  to  I  tell  a  I 

new  lady  what  was  governess  at  Mr.  i 
says  ;  '  tb  \\  ith  the 


282  LADY  AUDLEY'S  SECRET.    . 

Audley.  but  you're  to  be  sure-to  give  it  into  her  own  hands;  and  re- 
member feo  take  care  as  nobody  sees  you  give  it.'  I  promises  to  do 
this,  ahd-he  hands  me  the  first  letter.  And  then  he  says,  '  Do  you  know- 
Mr.  Audley,- as  is  nevy  to  Sir  Michael1?'  and  I  said,,' Yes,  I've  heerd  tell 
on  him,  and  I'd  heerd  as  lie  Mas  a  reg'lar  swell,  hut  affable  and  free, 
spoken'  (for  1  heerd  him  tell  on  you,  you  know),"  Luke  added,  paren- 
thetically. "  '  Now  look  here,'  the  young  chap  says,  '  you're. lo  give  this 
other  letter  to  Mr.  Robert  Audley,  whose  a  stayin'  at  the  Sun  Inn.  in 
the  village;'  and  I  tells  him  it's  all  right,  as  I've  know'd  the' Sun  ever 
since  I  was  a  baby.  So  then  he  gives  me  the  second  letter,  what's  got' 
nothink  wrote  upon  the  envelope,  and  he  gives  me.  a  five-pound  note, 
>!in'  to  promise;  .and  then  he  says,  'Good  day,  and  thank  you  for 
all  yourtrouble,'  and  he  gets  into  a  sei  s  carriage.;  and  the  last  I 

of  him  is  a  face  as  white  as  a  sheet  o)  ntin'  paper,  and  a  great 
patch  of  stickin'-plaster  criss-crossed  upon  hi.-,  i   rehead." 

"  Poor  George  !  poor  George  !"   ' 

"  I  went  back  to  Audley,  and  I  went  straight  to  the  Sun  Inn,  and  ask- 
ed for  you,  meanin'  to  deliver  both  letters  faithful,  so  help'  me  God ! 
then;  but  the  landlord  told  me  as  you'd  started  off  that  mornin'  for 
London,  and  he  didn't  know  when  you'd. come  back,  and  he  didn't  know 
the  name  o'  the  place  where  you  lived  in  London,  though  he  said  he 
thought  it  was  in  one  o'  them  law  courts,  such  as  Westminster  Hall  or 
Doctors'  Commons,  or  somethin'  like  that.  So  what  was  I  to  do?  I 
couldn't  send  the  letter  by  post,  not  knowin'  where  to  direct  to,  and  I 
couldn't  give  it  into  your  own  hands,  and  I'd  been  told  partickler  not  to 
let  anybody  else  know  of  it;  so  I'd  nothing  to  do  but  to  wait  and  see  if 
you  come  back,  and  bide  my  time  for  givin'  of  it  to  you. 

"  I  thought  I'd  go  over  to  the  Court  in  the  evenin'  and  see  Phoebe, 
and  find  out  from  her  when  there'd  be  a  chance -of  my  seem'  her  lady, 
for  I  know'd  she  could  manage  it  if  she  liked.  So  I  didn't  go  to  work 
that  day,  though  I  ought  to  ha' done,  and  I  lounged  and  idled  about 
until  it  was  nigh  upon  dusk,  and  then  I  goes  down  to  the  meadows  be- 
hind the  Court,  and  there  I  finds  Phcebe  sure  enough  waitin'  agen  the 
wooden  door  in  the  wall,  on  the'lookout  for  me. 

"I  hadn't  been  talkin'  to  her  long  before  I  see  there  was  somethink 
wrong  with  her,  and  I  told  her  as  much. 

" '  Well,'  she  says,  '  I  ain't  quite  myself  this  evenin',  for  I  had  a  up- 
set yesterday,  and  I  ain't  got  over  it  yet.' 

"'A  upset,'  I  says.  'You  had  a  quarrel  with  your  missus,  I  sup- 
pose.' 

"She  didn't  answer  me  directly,  but  she  smiled  the  queerest  smile 
as  ever  I  see,  and  presently  she  says:. — 

"'No,  Luke,  it  weren't  nothin' o' that  kind;  and  what's  more,  no- 
body could  be  friendlier  towards  ma  than  my  lady.  I  think  she'd  do 
anythink  for  me  a'most  ;  and  I  think,  whether  it  was  a  bit  o'  farming 
stock  and  furniture  or  such  like,  or  whether  it  was  the  good  will  of  a 
public  house,  she  wouldn't  refuse  me  anythink  as  I  asked  her.' 

"  I  couldn't  make  out  this,  for  it  was  only  a  few  days  before  as  she'd 


UDLEY'S  SECRET.  2 S3 

tola  mo  her  missus  ish  and  extra\  I  ■ 

line  before  we  what  we  wan 

So  I  says  to  her,  '  Why,  this  is  rath 
says,**  Yes.  it  i  I  she  smiles  again,  just  th 

tmile   as    before,       [Jpon    tl>a4    1    tutus    ro  p.   her   sharp, 

says:— 

"Til  tell  you  what  rt  is,  my  gal;  you're  a  keepin' sometWnk  I 
me;  .-  u've  be'eu  told,  or  somethink  you've  found  Oul  ;  and 

•  if  you  think  you're  i  ry  thai  game  en  with      .    you'll  fin 

very  much  mi  I  give  you    • 

"But  she  laughed  it  off  like,  and  says,  '  Lor,  Luke,  what  could  ' 
put  such  fancies  into  your  head  V 

"'Perhaps  other  i    n  keep  secrets  as  well  as  you  and 

perhaps  other  in  make  friendi»,as  wi 

gentleman  came,  here  (o  see  your  missus  yssterdi  't  there — a  tall 

young  gentleman  with  a  brown  beard  ?' 

"  Instead  of  answering  of  me  like  a  Christian,  my  ebusin  Phoebe  b 
out  a  cryin',  and  wrings  her  bands,  and  goes  on  awful,  until  I'm  da 
if  I  can  make  out  wh  up  to. 

"But  little  by  little  I  got  it  out  of  her,  for  1  wouldn't  stand  no  non- 
sense ;  and  she  told  me  how  she'd  been  i  work  at.  the  wi 
of  her  little  room,  which  was  at  the  top  of  the  hou-c,  right  up  in  one  of 
the  gables,  and  overlooked  the  lime-walk,  and  the  shrubbery,  ai  d  the 
well,  when  she  see  my  lady  walkin'  with  a  -strange  gentleman,  and  they 
walked  together  for  a  long  time,  until  by-and-by  they " 

"Stop!"  cried  Robert,  "I  know  the  rest." 

"  Well,  Phoebe  told  me  all  about  what  she  see.  and  sha  told  i 
met  her  lady  almost   directly   afterward,   and  some!'  i  be- 

tween 'em,  not  much,  but  enough   to  let  her  missus  know  ihat  th< 
vant  what  she  looked  down  upon  had  found  out  that  as  would  put  her  in 
that  servant's  poAver  to  the  last  day  of  her  Bfr. 

'"And  she   is   in   my  power,  Luke,' says  Phoebe ;   'and  she'll  do  any- 
thin'  in  the  world  for  us  if  we  keep  he 

"So  you  see  both  my  Lady  Audley  and  her  maid  though)  as  the 
tleman  as  I'd  seen  safe  off  by  the  London  train  was  lyi 
bottom  of  the  well.     If  I  ive  the  letter  they'd  find  out  tb< 

trairy  of  this;  and  if  I  \  i    and  me  would 

the  chance  of  gettin'  started  in  life  by  her  missus. 

"So  1  kep' the  letter  and    kep'  my    secret,    and    my   lady    1. 
But  I  thought  if  she  acted  liberal  by  me.  at 
ed,  free  like,  I'd  tell  her  every  think,  and  make  her  mind 

"  But  she  didn't.    Whatevet  he  thro* 

a  dog.     Whenever  she  spoke  to  i 
to  a  dog;  and  a  dog  .she  couldn't  abide 
in  her  mouth  that  was   too   bad   for  me;  th 

her  head  that  was  too   |  roud   and  I 

biled  agen  her,  and  I  fcep 
the  two  letters,  and  I  mud  'em.  but  I  could't  make  mu< A  - 


284  LADY   AUDLFY'S  SECRET. 

'em,  and  I  hi  J  'em  away  .  and  not  a  creature  but  me  has  seen  'em  until 
this  night,"  ' 

.  Luke  Marks  had  finished  his  story,  and  lay  quietly  enough,  exhausted 
by  having  talked  so  long.  He  watched  Robert  Audley's  face,  fully  ex- 
pecting some  reproof,  some  grave  lecture;  for  he  had  a  vague  conscious- 
ness that"  he  had  done  wrong. 

But  Robert  did  not,  lecture  him ;  he  had  no  fancy  for  an  office  which 
he  did  not  think  himself  fitted  to  perform.    ; 

Robert  Audley  sat  until  long  after  daybreak  with  the  sick  man,  who 
fell  into  a  heavy  slumber  a  short  time  after  he  had  finished  his  story.. 
The  old  woman  had  dozed  comfortably  throughout  her  son's  confession. 
Phoebe  was  asleep  upon'.the  press  bedstead  in  the  room  below ;  so  the 
young  barrister  was  the  only  watcher. 

He  could  not  sleep ;  he  could  only  think  of  the  story  he  had  heard. 
He  could  only  thank  God  for  his  friend's  preservation,  and  pray  that  he 
might  be  able  to  go  to  Clara  Talboys,  and  say,  "  Your  brother  still  lives, 
and.  has  been  found." 

Phoebe  came  up-stairs  at  eight  o'clock,  ready  to  take  her  place  at  the 
sick-bed,  and. Robert  Audley  went  away,  to  get  a  bed  at  the  Sun  Inn. 
It  was  nearly  dusk  whea  he  awoke  out  of  a  lon;>-,  dreamless  slumber, 
and  dressed  himself  before  dining  in  the  little  sitting-room,  in  which  he 
and  George  had  sat  together  a  few  months  before. 

The  landlord  waked  upon  him  at  dinner,  and  told  him  that  Luke 
Marks  had  died  at  five  o'clock  that  afternoon.  "  He  went  off  rather 
sudden  like,"  the  man  said,  "  but  very  quiet." 

Robert  Audley  wrote  a  long  letter  that  evening,  addressed  to  Ma- 
dame Taylor,  care  of  Monsieur  Val,  ViHebrumeuse;  a  long  letter,  in 
which  he  told  toe  wretched  woman  who  had  borne  so  many  names,  and 
was  to  bear  a  false  one  for  the  rest  of  her  life,  the  story  that  the  dying 
man  had  told  him. 

"  It  may  l)e  some  comfort  to  her  to  hear  that  her  husband  did  not  pe- 
rish in  his  youth  by  her  wicked  hand,"  he  thought,  "  if  her  selfish  soul 
can  hold  any  sentiment  of  pity  or  sorrow  for  others." 


CHAPTER  XL. 

RESTORED. 


Clara  Talboys  returned  to  Dorsetshire,  to  tell  her  father  that  his  only 
son  had  sailed  for  Austral ia%ipon  the  9th  of  September,  and  that  it  was 
most  probable  he  yet  lived,  and  would  return  to  claim  the  forgiveness  of 
the  father  he  had  never  very  particularly  injured ;  except  in  the-matter  of 


lady  auMjEVs  secret. 

having  made  that  terrible  matrimonial  mistake  which  had  exorcised  so 
fatal  ah  influence  upon  his  youth. 

Mr..  Ilarcourt  Talboys  was  fairly  nonplused.     Junius  Brutus  had  i  i 
been  placed  in  such  a  position  as  this,  and  seeing  no  waj  of  getting  out 
of  this  dilemm.i  by  acting  after  his  lav  le],  Mr.  T 

to  pe  natural  for  once  in  his  life,  and  to  confess  that  he  had  much 

uneasiness  and  pain  of  mind  about   his  only  son  since  his  converi 
with  Robert  Audley,  and  that  he  would  be  heartily 

Co  his  arms,  whenever  he  should  return  to  England.  But  when  was 
he  likely -to  return  ?'  an  1  how  was  he  to  be  communicated  with?  Thai 
was  the  question.  Robert  Audley  remembered  the  advertisements 
which  he  had  caused  to  be  inserted  in  the  Melbourne  and  Sydney  papers. 
If  George  had  re-entered  either  ci  how  was  it  that 

ever  been  taken  of  that  advertisement  .     \\  as  it  likely  his  friend  would 
be  Indifferent  to  his  uneasii  gain,  it  was/jusl 

that  George  Talboys  had  noi  this  advertisement  ;  and, 

as  he  had  travelled  under  a  feigi  i  d  name,  neither  his  fellow-passengew 
nor  the  captain  of  the  vessel  would  have  been  able  t<  him  v.  It/ 

the  person  advertised  for.  What  was  to  be  done?  Must  ihey 
patiently  till  George  grew  weary  of  his  exile,  and  returned  to  the  iiiends 
who  loved  him  ;  or  were  there  any  means  to  be  taken  by  which  his  re- 
turn might  be  hastened?  Robert  Audley  was  at  fault !  Perhaps,  in 
the  unspeakable  relief  of  mind  which  he  had  experienced  upon  th< 
covery  of  his  friend's  escape,  he  was  unable  to  look  beyond  the  one  fact 
of  that  providential  preservation. 

In  this  state  of  mind  ho  went  down  to  Dorsetshire  to  pay  a  visit,  to 
Mr.  Talboys,  who  had  given  way  to  a  perfect  torrent  of  generous  im- 
pulses, and  had  gone  so  far  a^  to  invite  his  son's  friend  to  share  the  prim 
hospitality  of  the  square,  red-brick  mansion. 

Mr.  Talboys  had  only  two  sentiments   upon   the  subje- 

;  « me  was  a  natural   relief  and   happiness   in   the  thought  thai 
son  had  been  saved  ;  the  other  was  an   earnest    wish  that  my  lady  had 
been  his  wife,  and  that  he  might  thus  have  had  the  pleasure  of  ma'. 
;1  example  of  her. 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  blame  you,  Mr.  Audley,"  he  said,  M  for  having 
smuggled  this  guilty  woman  out  of  the  reach  of  justice,  and  thus,  a«  I 
may  say,  pattered  with  the  laws  of  your  country.  I  can  only  remark 
that,  had  the  lady  fallen  into  my  hands,  she  would  have  been  very  dif- 
ferently treated." 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  April  when  Robert  Audley  found  hin 
more  under  those  black    fir-tl  ith  which 

had  so  often  strayed   since  his  first  meeting  with  Cla 
were  primroses  and  early  violets  in  the   hedges  now.   ai 
which,  upon  his  first  visit,  bad  been  hard  and  n  >s1  ;  i  md 
llareourt  Talboys,    had    thawed,    like  thai  in,  and  ran  merrily 

under  the  blackthorn  bushes  in  the  oapricious  A]  Ine. 

•ert  had  a  prim   bed  room   and  ai 
allotted  to  him  in  the  square  house,  and  he  wok  pon  a 


286  kADY   ACDLEY'S  SECRET. 

metallic  spring-mattress  which  always  gave  him  the  idea  of .  looping 
upon  some  musical  instrument,  to  see  thd  sun  glaring  in  upon  him  through 
the  square  white  blinds,  and  lighting  up  the  two  lackered  urns  .which, 
adorned  the  fbtffcbf  his  blue  iron  bedstead,  until  they  blazed  like  two 
tiny  brazen  lamj '-;  of  the  Roman  period.  He  emulated  Air.  IIarcouit 
Taiboys  »b  f  shower-baths  and  cold  water,  and  emerged  prim 

and  blue  as  th;  ra*n  himself,  as  the  clock  in  the  hall  struck  seven, 

to  join  the  master  of  the  house  in  his  ante-breakfast  constitutional  under 
the  fir-trees  in  the  stiff  plantation. 

But  there  was  generally^  third  person  who  assisted  in  these  consti- 
ftational  promenade?,  and  that  third  person  was  Clara  Taiboys,  who  used 
to  walk  by  her  father's  side,  more  beautiful  than  the  morning — for  that 
was  sometimes  dulland  cloudy,  while  she  was  always  fresh  and  bright — 
in  a  broad-leaved  straw  hat  and  flapping  blue  ribbons,  one  quarter  of  an 
inch  of 'which  Mr.  Audley  would  have  esteemed  a  prouder  decoration 
than  ever  adorned  a  favored  creature's  button  hole. 
~  Absent  George  was  often  talked  of  in  these  morning  walks,  and  Ro- 
Ireft  Audley  seldom  took  his  place  at  the  long  breakfast-table  without 
'remembering  the.  morning  upon  which  he  had  first  sat  in  that  room,  tel- 
ling his  friend's  story,  and  hating  Clara  Taiboys  for  her  cold  self-posses- 
sion. He  knew  better  now,  and  knew  that  she  was  one  of  the  most  no- 
ble and  beautiful  of  women.  But  had  she  yet  discovered  how  dear  she 
was  to  her  brother's  friend  1  Robert  used  to  wonder  sometimes  if  if 
were  possible  that  he  had  not  yet  betrayed  himself;  if  it  could  be  pos- 
sible that  the  love  which  made  her  very  presence  a  magical  influence  to 
him,  had  failed  to  make  itself  known  by  some  inadvertent  glance,  by 
some  unconscious  tremble  in  the  voice,  that  seemed  to  take  another. tone 
when  he  addressed  her.  He  was  jealous  of  anybody  and  everybody 
who  came  into  the  region  inhabited  by  those  calm  brown  eyes  ;  jealous 
of  a  fat  widower  of  eight-and-forty  ;  of  an  elderly  baronet  with  purple 
whiskers  ;.  of  the  old  women  about  the  neighborhood  whom  Clara  Tai- 
boys visited  and  ministered  to;  of  the  flowers  in  the  conservatory, 
which' occupied  so  much  of  her  time  and  distracted  her  attention  from 
him. 

At  first  they  were  very  ceremonious  toward"  each  other,  and  were  on- 
ly familiar  and  friendly  upon  the  one  subject  of  George's  adventures ; 
but,  little  by  little,  a  pleasant  intimacy  arose  between  them,  and  before 
the  first  three  weeks  of  Robert's  visit  had  elapsed,  Miss  Taiboys  made 
him  happy,  by  taking  him  seriously  in  hand  and  lecturing  him  on  the 
purposeless  life  he  had  led  so  long,  and  the  little  use  he  had  made  of  the 
talents  and  opportunities  that  had  been  given  to  him. 

How  pleasant  it  was  to  be  lectured  by  the  woman  he  loved  !  How 
pleasant  it  was  to  humiliate  himself  and  depreciate  himself  before  her  ! 
How  delightful  it  was  to  get  such  splendid  opportunities  of  hinting  that 
if  his  life  had  been  sanctified  by  an  object,  he  might  indeed  have  striven 
to  be  someting  better  th#n  an  idle  flaneur  upon  the  smooth  pathways 
that  have  no  particular  goal ;  that,  blessed  by  the  ties  which  would  have 
given  a  solemn  purpose  to  every  hour  of  his  existence,  he  might  indeed 


LADY   AUJPLBY'S  SECRET.  287 

have  fought  the  battle  earnestly  and  unflinchingly.     He  generally  w-birnd 
dp  with 'a  globmy  insinuation  to.  tl  that  it  -  likely  he 

would  drop  quicily  over  Ihc  edge  Temple  'Gardi 

oooh,  when  the  river  wa  ihd  placid  in  the  low  sunlight,  and  the 

little  children  had  gone  home  to  their  : 

"Do  you  think  1  can  read  French  novels  and  smoke  mild  Ti 
til  I  am'  threo-score-and-ten,  M  "'  he  asked,     "  Do  you  think 

that,  the'ro  will  not  come  a  day  in  which  my  meerschaums  will  be  foul, 
and  the  French  novels  more  than  usually  stupid,  and  life  a 
a  dismal  monotony  that  I  shall  want  to  get  rid  • 

•I  am  sorry  to   Say   that  while  this  wan 

holding  forth  in  this  despondent  way.  he  had  m  Id  up  his  bach- 

elor possessions,  including  all  Michel  1,  lo'zeji 

solid   silver-mounted   meerschaui 
laid  out  two-or  three  tin  iunds  in-. tl 

verdant  shrubbery  and   sloping   lawn.  >jned    amid   which 

should  be  a  fairy  cottage  ornee,  whose  rusii 
out  of  bowers  of  myrtle  and  clematis  to  see  thei 
purple  bosom  of  the  lake. 

Of  course,  Clara  Talboys  was  far  from  discovering  the 
melancholy  lamentations.     She  recommend 
and  think  seriously  of  his  profession,  and  begin  life   in   n  i 
was  a  hard,  dry  sort  of  existence,  perhaps,  which   she   recommended  ;  a 
life  of  serious  work  and  application,  in  which  he  should  strive  to  be  use- 
ful to  his  fellow. creatures,  and  win  a  reputation  for  Dims 

"  I'd  do  all  that,"  he  thought,  "and  do  it  earnestly,  if  1  could  be  sure 
of  a  reward  for  my  labor.     If  she.  would  accept  my   reputation  when  it 
was  won,  and  support  me  in  the  struggle  by  her 
But  what  if  sh  ght   the  b 

hulking  country  squire  .    back  is  turned  ?"'  , 

ing  naturally  i  ;  and  dilal 

saying  how  long  Mr.  Audley  might  have  kept  hi 
and  break  the  charm  of  that  uncertainty  which,  though  n< 
fuf,  was  very  seldom  quite  despairing,  had  • 
impulse  of  an  unguarded  moment  into  a  full  copfi  ruth. 

lie  had  stayed  five,  weeks  at  Grange  Heath,    and    felt   that   he  could 
not,  in  common  decency. 
manteau  one  pleasant  May  n 

Mr.  Tall  dil- 

ations at  the  prospect  < 

dianty  which  served  with  him 
of  friendship. 

"  We  have  got  on  very  w< 
have  been  pleased  I 
our  orderly  household;  nay, 
mestie  regulations  in  a  manner  wh 
as  an  especial  complim< 

Robert  bowed.     How  thankful  hu  wan  to  'he 


288  .  liApY   AUDLEY'S  SECRET. 

never  suffered  him  to  over-sleep  the  signal  of  the  clanging  bell,  of.  led 
him  away  beyond  the  ken  of  clocks  at  Mr.  Talboy's  luncheon  hour. 

'•  I  trust  as  we  have  got  on  so  remarkably  well  together,"  Mr.  Tab 
boys'  resumed,  "  you  will  do  me  the  honor  of  repeating  your  visit  to 
Dorsetshire  whenever  you  feel  inclined.  You  will  find  plenty  of  sport 
among  my  farms,  and  you  will  meet  with  every  politeness  and  attention 
from  my  "tenants,  if  you.  like  to  bring  your  gun  with  you."    ■ 

Robert  responded  most  heartily  to  these  friendly  overtures.  He  de- 
clared that  there  was  no  earthly  occupation  that. was  more  agreeable  to 
him  than  partridge  shooting,  and  that  he  should  be  only  too  delighted 
to  avail  himself  of  the  privilege  so  kindly,  offered  to  him.  He  could  not 
help  glancing  towards  Clara  as  he  said  this.  The  perfect 'lids  drooped 
a  little  over  the  brown  eyes,  and  the  faintest  shadow  of  a  blush  illumi- 
nated the  beautiful  face. 

But  this  was  the  young  barrister's  last  day  in  Elysium,  and  there 
must  be  a  dreary  interval  of  days  and  nights  and  weeks  and  months  be- 
fore the  first  of  September  would  give  him  an  excuse  for  returning'  to 
Dorsetshire :  a  dreary  interval  which  fresh-colored  young  squires,  or  fat 
widowers  of  eight-and-forty,  might  use  to  his  disadvantage.  Tt  was  no* 
wonder,  therefore,  that  he  contemplated  this  dismal  prospect  with  moody 
despair,  and  was  bad  company  for  Miss  Talboys  that  morning. 

But  in  theevening  after  dinner,  when  the  sun  was  low  in  the  west, 
and  Harcourt  Talboys  closeted  in  his  library  upon  some  judicial  busi- 
ness with  his  lawyer  and  a  tenant  farmer,  Mr.  Audley  grew  a  little  more 
agreeable.  He  stood  by  Clara's  side  in  one  of  the  long  windows  of  the 
drawing-room,  watching  the  shadows  deepening  in  the  sky  and  the  rosy 
light  growing  every  moment  rosier  as  the  day  died  out.  He  could  not 
help  enjoying'that  quiet  tete-d-tele,  though  the  shadow  of  the  next  morn- 
ing's express  which  was  to  carry  him  away  to  London  loomed  darkly 
across  the  pathway  of  his  joy.  He  could  not  help  being  happy  in  her 
•  presence  ;  forgetful  of  the  past,  reckless  of  the  future. 

They  talked  of  the  one  subject  which  was  always  a  bond  of  union  be- 
tween them.  They  talked  of  her  lost  brother  George.  She  spoke  of 
him  in  a  very  melancholy  tone  this  evening.  How  could  she  be  other- 
wise than  sad,  remembering  that  if  he  lived — and  she  was  not  even  sure  of 
that — he  was  a  lonely  wanderer  far  away  from  all  who  loved  him,  and 
carrying  the  memory  of  a  blighted  life  wherever.he  went. 

"  I  cannot  think  how  papa  can  be  so  resigned  to  my  poor  brother's 
absence,"  she  said,  "  for  he  does  love  him,  Mr.  Audley ;  even  you  must 
have  seen  lately  that  he  does  love  him.  But  I  cannot  think  how  he  can 
so  quietly  submit  to  his  absence.  If  I  were  a  man,  I  would  go  to  *Aus-4 
tralia,  and  find  him,  and  bring  him  back ;  if  he  was  still  to  be  found 
among  the  living,", she  added,  in  a  lower  voice. 

She  turned  her  face  away  from  Robert,  and  looked  out  at  the  darken- 
ing sky.     He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm.     It  trembled  in  spite  of  him, 
and  his  voice  trembled,  too,  as  he  spoke  to  her. 
"  Shall  i  go  to  look  for  your  brother1?"  he  said. 
"  You!"    She  turned  her  head,  and  looked  at  him  earnestly  through 


LADY   AUDLEVtt  SE0KK1  '  283 

her  tears.     "  You,  Mr.  Audley  !     Do  you  think  that  I  could  ask  you  to 
make  such  a  sacrifice  for  me,  or  for  those  I  love 

"  And  do  you  think,  Clara)  that  I  should  think  any  sacrifice  too  great 
an  one. if  it  were  made  for  you?  Do  you  think  there  is  any  voyage  I 
•would  refuse  to  take,  if  I  knew  that  you  would  welcome  me  when  I  came 
home,  and  thank  me  for  having  served  you  faithfully  ?  I  will  go  from 
one  end  of  the  continent  of  Australia  to  the  other  to  look  for  your  bro- 
ther, if  you  please,  Clara  ;  and  will  never  return  alive  unless  1  bring 
him  with  me,  and  will  take  my  chance  of  what  reward  you  shall  give 
me  for  my  labor." 

Her  head  was  bent,  and  it  was  some  moments  before  she  answered  him. 

"You  are  very  cood  and  generous,  Mr.  Audley,"  she  said,  at  last, 
"and  I  feel  this  offer  too  much  to  be  able  to  thank  you  for  it.  But — 
what  you  speak  of  could  never  be.  By  what  right  could  I  accept  such 
a  sacrifice  ?" 

"  By  the  right  which  makes  me  your  bounden  slave  for  ever  and  ever, 
whether  you  will  or  no.  By  the  right  of  the  love  I  bear  you,  Clara," 
cried  Mr.  Audley,  dropping  on  his  knees, — rather  awkwardly,  it  must 
be  confessed — and  covering  a  soft  little  hand,  that  he  had  found  half 
hidden  among  the  folds  of  a  silken  dress,  with  passionate  kisses. 

"  I  love^you,  Clara,"  he  said,  "I  love  you.  You  may  call  for  your 
father,  and  have  me  turned  out  of  the  house  this  moment,  if  you  like; 
but  I  shall  go  on  loving  you  all  the  same ;  and  I  shall  Love  you  for  ever 
and  ever,  whether  you  will  or  no." 

The  little  hand  was  drawn  away  from  his,  but  not  with  a  sudden  or 
angry  gesture,  aud  it  rested  for  one  moment  lightly  and  tremulously 
upon  his  dark  hair. 

"  Clara,  Clara  !"  he  murmured,  in  a  low,  pleading  voice,  "  shall  I  go 
to  Australia  to  look  for  your  brother?" 

There  was  no  answer.     I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  there  is  scarce  lv 
any  thing  more  delicious  than  silence  in  such  cases.     Every  monu: 
hesitation  is  a  tacit  avowal ;  every  pause  is  a  tender  confession. 

"  Shall  we  both  go,  dearest?  Shall  we  go  as  man  and  wife  ?  Shall 
we  go  together,  my  dear  love,  and  bring  our  brother  back  between  us  V 

Mr,  Harcourt  Talboys,  coming  into  the  lamp-lit  room  a  quarter  of  an 
hourafterwards,  found  Robert  Audley  alone,  and  had  to  listen  to  a  rev- 
elation which  very  much  surprised  him.  Like  all  self-sHiffieu'nt  people, 
he  was  tolerably  blind  to  every  thing  that  happened  under  his  nose,  and 
he  had  fully  believed  that  his  own  society,  and  the  Spartan  regular/ 
his  household,  had  been  the  attractions  which  had  made  Dorsetshire  de- 
lightful to  his  guest. 

He  was  rather  disappointed,  therefore;  but  he  bore  his  disappoint- 
ment pretty  well,  and  expressed  a  placid  and  rather  stoical  satisfaction 
at  the  turn  which  affairs  had  taken. 

"I  have  only  one  more  point  upon  which  I  wish  to  obtain  your  con* 
sent,  my  dear  sir,''  Robert  said,  when  aim"  l.inghad  been  pleas- 

antly settled.     "  Our  honey-moon  trip,  with  your  permission,  will  be  to 
Australia." 

19 


290  ^ADY  .  AUDLEY'S  SECRET. 

•  Mr.  Talboys  was  taken  aback  by  this.  He  brushed  something  like  a 
toarful  mist  away  from  his  hard  grey  eyes  as  he.4iftered  Robert  his  hand. 

"  You  are  going  to  look  for  my 'son,"  he 'said.  li  Bring  me  back  my 
boy,  and  I  will  freely  forgive  you  for  having  robbed  me  of  my  daughter." 

So  Robert  Audley  went  back  to  London,  to  surrender  his  chambers 
in  Fig-tree  court,  and  to  make  all  due  inquiries  about  such  ships  as  sail- 
ed from  Liverpool  for  Sydney  in  the  month  of  June. 

He  went  back  a  new  man,  with  new  hopes,  new  cares,  new  prospects, 
new  purposes;  with  a  life  that  was  so  entirely  changed  that  he  looked 
out  upon  a  world  in  which  every  thing  wore  a  radiant,  and  rosy  aspect, 
and  wondered  how  it  could  ever  have  seemed  such  a  dull,  neutral-tinted 
universe. 

He  had  lingered  until  after  luncheon  at  Grange  Heath,  and  it  was  in 
the  dusky  twilight  that  he  entered  the  shady  Temple  courts  and  found 
his  way  to  his  chambers.  He  found  Mrs.  Maloney  scrubbing  the  stairs, 
as  was  her  wont  upon  a  Saturday  evening,  and  he  had  to  make  his  way 
upward  amidst. an  atmosphere  of  soapy  steam,  that  made  the  banisters 
greasy  under  his' touch. 

"  There's  lots  of  letthers,  yer  honor,"  the  laundress  said,  as  she  rose 
from  her  knees  and  flattened  herself  against  the  wall  to  enable  Robert 
to  pass  her,  "  and  there's  some  parrcels,  and  there's  a  gentleman  which 
has  called  ever  so  rriany  times,  and  is  waitin'  to-night,  for  I  towld  him 
you'd  witten  to  me  to  say  your  rooms  were  to  be  aired." 

"Very  good,  Mrs.  M, ;  you  may  get  me  some  dinner  and  a  pint  of 
sherry  as  soon  as  you  like,  and  see' that  my  luggage  is  all  right,  if  you 
please."  . 

He  walked  quietly  up  to  his  room  to  see  who  his  visitor  was.  He 
was  not  likely  to  be  anybody  of  consequence.  A  dun,  perhaps  ;  for  he 
had  left  his  affairs  in  the  wildest  confusion  when  he  ran  off  in  answer  to 
Mr.  Talboys'  invitation,  and  had  been  much  too  high  up  in  the  sublime 
heaven  of  love  to  remember  any  such  sublunary  matters  as  unsettled 
tailors'  bills.  * 

He  opened  the  door  of  his  sitting-room,  and  walked  in.  The  canaries 
were  singing  their  farewell  to  the  setting  sun,  and  the  faint,  yellow  light 
was  nickering  upon  the  geranium  leaves.  The  visitor,  whoever  he  was, 
sat  with  his  back  to  the  window  and  his  head  bent  upoA  his  breast.  But 
he  started  up  as  Robert  Audley  entered  the  room,  and  the  young  man 
uttered  a  great  cry  of  delight  and  surprise,  and  opened  his  arms  to  his 
lost  friend,  George  Talboys. 

Mrs.  Maloney  had  to  fetch  more  wine  and  more  dinner  from  the  tav- 
ern which  she  honored  with  her  patronage,  and  the  two  young  men  sat 
deep  into  the  night  by  the  hearth  which  had  so  long  been  lonely. 

We  know  how  much  Robert  had  to  tell.  He  touched  lightly  and 
tenderly  upon  that  subject  which  he  knew  was  cruelly  painful  to  his 
friend;  he  said  very  little  of  the  wretched  woman  who  was  wearing  put 
the  remnant  of  her  wicked  life  in  the  quiet- suburb  of  the  forgotten  Bel- 
gian city. 

George  Talboys  spoke  very  briefly  of  that  sunny  seventh  of  Septem- 


L  .U>  V    A  p  !  •  I ,  L  V  :-    3  EC  RJB1  2  9  1 

-ber,  upon  which  he  Wad  left  his  friend  sleeping  by  the  trout  stream  while 
he  went  to  accuse,  his  false  wife  of  that. conspiracy  which  had  well  nigh 
broken  his  he 

"  God  knows  that  from  the  moment  In  which  I  sarfk  into  the  black 
pit,  knowing  the;  treacherous  hand  that  had  sent  me  to  what  might  have 
been  my  death,  my  chief  thought  was  of  the  safety  of  the  woman  who 
had  betrayed  me.  I  fell  upon  my  feet  upon  a  mass  of  slush  and  mire, 
but  my  shoulder  was  bruised,  and  my  arm  broken  against  the  side  of 
the  well.  I  was  stunned  and  dazed  for  a  few  minutes,  but  1  roused  my- 
self by  an  effort,  for  I  felt  that  the  atmosphere  I  breathed  was  deadly. 
1  had  my  Australian  experiences  to  help  mo  in  my  perir,  and  I  could 
climb  like  a  cat.  The  stones  of  which  the  well  was  built  were  rugged 
and  irregular,  and  I  was  able  to  work  my  way  upward  by  planting  my 
feet  in  the  interstices  of  the  stones,  and  resting  my  back  at  times  against 
the  opposite  side  of  the  well,  helping  myself  as  well  as  I  could  with  my 
hands,  though  one  arm  was  crippled.  It  was  hard  work,  Bob,  and  it. 
seems  strange  enough  thai  'i  map  who  had  long  professed  himself  weary 
of  his  life,  should  take  so  much  trouble  to  preserve  it.  I  think  I  must 
have  been  working  upwards  6f  half  an  hour  before  I  got  to  the  top ;  I 
know  the  time  seemed  an  eternity  of  pain  and  peril.  It  was  impossible 
for  me  to  leave  the  place  until  after  dark  without  being  observed,  so  I 
hid  myself  behind  a  clump  of  laurel-bushes,  and  lay  down  on  the  grass 
faint  and  exhausted  to  wait  for  nightfall.  The  man  who  found  me  there 
told  you  the  rest,  Robert." 

"Yes,  my  poor  old  friend — yes,  he  told  me  all.." 

George  had  never  returned  to  Australia  after  all.  He  had  gone  on 
board  the  Victoria  Regia,  but  had  afterwards  exchanged  his  berth  for  one 
in  another  vessel  belonging  to  the  same  owners,  and  had  gone  to  New- 
York,  where  he  had  stayed  as  long  as  he  could  support  the  weariness  of 
his  exile;  as  long  as  he  could  endure  the  loneliness  of  an  existence  which 
separated  him  from  every  friend  he  had  ever  known. 

"  Jonathan  was  very  kind  to  me,  Bob,"  he  said  ;  "  I  had  enough  mo- 
ney to  enable  me  to  get  on  pretty  well  in  my  own  quiet  way,  and  I 
meant  to  have  started  on  the  California  gold  fields  to  get  more  when 
that  was  gone.  I  might  have  made  plenty  of  friends  had  I  pleased,  but 
I  carried  the  old  bullet  in  my  breast ;  and  what  sympathy  could  I  have 
with  men  who  knew  nothing  of  my  grief?  I  yearned  for  the  strong 
grasp  of  your  hand,  Bob  ;  the  friendly  touch  of  t;te  band  irkich  kad  gui 
ded  me  through  the  darkest  passage  of  my  life." 


292  LADY   DUDLEY '8  SECRET 


CHAPTER   XLI. 

AT  PEACE. 

.  Two  years  have  passed  sines  the  May  twilight  in  which  Robert  found 
his  old  friend  ;  and  Mr.  Audley's  dream  of  a  fairy  cottage  has  been  real- 
ized between  Teddington  Locks  and  Hampton  Bridge,  where,  amid  a  lit- 
tle forest  of  foliage,  there  is  a  fantastical  dwelling-place  of  rustic  wood- 
work,- whose  latticed  windows  look  out  upon  the  river.  Here,  amongst 
the  lilies  and  the  rushes  on  the  sloping  bank,  a  brave  boy  of  eight  years 
old  plays  with  a  toddling  baby,  who  peeps  wonderirigly  from  his  nurse's 
arms  at  that  other  baby  in  the  purple  depth  of  the  quiet  water. 

Mr.  Audley  is  a  rising  man  upon  the  home  circuit  by  this  time,  and 
has  distinguished  himself  in  the  great  breach  of  promise  case  of  Hobbs  v. 
No.bbs,  and  has  convulsed  the  Court  by  his  deliciously  comic  rendering 
of  the  faithless  Nobb's  amatory  correspondence.  The  handsome  dark- 
eyed  boy  is  Master  George  Talboys,  who  declines  musa  at  Eton,  and 
fishes  for  tadpoles  in  the  clear  water  under  the  spreading  umbrage  be- 
yond the  ivied  walls  of  his  academy.  But  he  comes  very  often  to  the 
fairy  cottage  to  see  his  father,  who  lives  there  with  his  sister  and  his 
sister's  husband.;  and  he  is  very  happy  with  his  uncle  Robert,  his  aunt 
Clara,  and  the  pretty  baby  who  has  just  begun  to  toddle  qn  the  smooth 
lawn  that  slopes  down  to  the  water's  brink,  upon  which  there  is  a  little 
Swiss  boat-house  and  landing-stage  where  Robert  and  George  moor  their 
slender  wherries. 

Other  people  come  to  the  cottage  near  Teddington.  A  bright,  merry- 
hearted  girl,  and  a  gray-bearded  gentleman,  who  has  survived  the  trou- 
ble of  his  life,  and  battled  with  it  as  a  Christian  should. 

It  is  more  than  a  year  since  a  black-edged  letter,  written  upon  foreign 
paper,  came  to  Robert  Audley,  to  announce  the  death  of  a  certain  Mad- 
ame Taylor,  who  had  expired  peacefully  at  Villebrumeuse,  dying  after  a 
long  illness,  which  Monsieur  Val  describes  as  a  maladie  de  langueur. 

Another  visitor  comes  to  the  cottage  in  this  bright  summer  of  1861 
. — a  frank,  generous-hearted  young  man,  who  tosses  the  baby  and  plays 
with  Georgey,  and  is  especially  great  in  the  management  of  the  boats, 
which  are  never  idle  when  Sir  Harry  Towers  is  .at  Teddington. 

There  is  a  pretty  rustic  smoking-room  over  the  Swis% boat-house,  in 
which  the  gentlemen  sit  and  smoke  in  the  summer  evenings,  and  whence 
they  are  summoned  by  Clara  and  Alicia  to  drink  tea,  end  eat  strawber- 
ries and  cream  upon  the  lawn. 

Audley  Court  is  shut  up,  and  a  grim  old  housekeeper  reigns  paramount 
in  the  mansion  which  my  lady's  ringing  laughter  once  made  musical, 
A  curtain  hang*  before  the  pre-Raphaelite  portrait;  and  the  blue  mould 


L-LDY   AUDLEVb  SBCKJBT  WJ93 

which  artists  dread  gathers  upon  the.  Wouvermaifns  and  Poussins,  the 
Cuyps  and  Tintorettis.  The  house  is  often  shown  to  inquisitive  visitors, 
though  the  baronet  is  not  informed'  of  that  fact,  and  people  admire  my 
lady's  rooms,  and  ask  many  questions  about  the  pretty,  fair-haired  wo- 
man who  died  abroad. 

Sir  Michael  lias  no  fancy  to  return  to  the  familiar  dwelling-place  in 
which  he  once  dreamed  a  brief  dream  of  impossible  happiness.  He  re- 
mains in  London  until  Alicia  shall  be  Lady  Towers,  when  he  is  to  remove 
to  a  house  he  has  lately  bought  in  Hertfordshire,  on  the  borders  of  his 
son-in-law's  estate.  George  Talboys  is  very  happy  with  his  sifter  ami 
his  old  friend.  lie  is  a  young  man  yet,  remember,  and  it  is  not  quite 
impossible  that  he  may,  by-and-by,  find  some  one  who  will,  be  able  to 
console Tiira  for- fhe  past.  That  dark  story  of  the  past  fades  little  by 
little  every  day,  and  there  may  come  a  time  in  which  the  shadow  my 
lady's  wickedness  has  cast  upon  the  young  man's  life  will  utterly  vanish 
away. 

The  meerschaums  and  the  French  novels  have  been  presented  to  a 
young  Templar,  with  whom  Robert  Audley  had  been  friendly  in  his 
bachelor  days;  and  Mrs.  Maloney  has  a  little  pension,  paid  her  quarter- 
ly, for  her  care  of  the  canaries  and  geraniums. 

I  hope  no  one  will  take  objection  to  my  story  because  the  end  of  it 
leaves  the  good  people  all  happy  and  at  peace.  If  my  experience  of  life 
has  not  been  very  long,  it  has  at  least  been  manifold  ;  and  I  can  safely 
subscribe  to  that  which  a  mighty  king  and  a  great  philosopher  declared, 
when  he  said,  that  neither  the  experience  of  his  youth  nor  of  his  age  had 
ever  shown  him  "the  righteous  forsaken,  nor  his  seed  begging  their 
bread." 


THE  END. 


XlSf  'PRE3BS. 


JOSEPH  II. 

J^NT>   his    court 


BY  L.  MDHLBACH. 


jFrom  tftt  (Ectrmatt, 

BY  ADELAl  -)N. 

i 

The  above  is  the  title  of  an  historical  novel  -which  was  recently  published  in 
Germany,  and  was  crowned  with  the  greatest  success  that  has  ever  1 
in  the  annals  of  the  book  trade  and  in  the  world  of  letters.      The  various  sub- 
jects of  the  book  embrace  so  far  the   most   interesting  period   in  the  history  of 
the  world. 

The  scarcity  and  high  price  of  materials  compel  me  to  a  limited  edition,  and 
therefore  I  would  request  the  public  to  send  their  orders  in  time.  The  uncer- 
tainty of  wages  and  general  expenses  at  present  disables  me  from  determining 
the  price  of  the  work.     I  hope  to  issue  the  first  book  by  the  1st  of  JIay. 

S.  H.  GOETZEL, 

Mobile,  February  I,  1864.  Mobile,  Ala. 


To  be  published  by  the  1st  of  March. 

RAIDS  AND  ROMANCE  OF  MORGAN  AND  HIS  MEN. 

BY  SALLY  ROCHESTER  FORD. 

Second  "Edition. 

Improved,  revised  and  extended  to  his  capture  and    cfeape  from  prison,  with 
all  the  thrilling  incidents  connected  with  it.     This  abo  will  be  but  a  mud 
tion,  and  I  would  again  request  the  public  and  trade  to  send  their  orden  in  lime. 

S.  H.  G-OETZEL. 
M<t*tmc.  February  nt,   1RR4  M<  >B1LF..   ALA 


LIST    OF    PUBLICATIONS. 

S.  H.  GOETZEL, 
PUBLISHER   &    BOOKSELLER. 

WRITTEN  BY  GEN.  WM.  WALKER. 

One  Volume,  12mo.  Cloth,  complete 

do  Half  Calf....' * 

ROMANTIC  PASSAGES  IN  SOUTH-WESTERN  HISTORY, 

BY  HOIS.  A,  B.  MEEK. 
One  Volume,  12mo  ,  Cloth 

The  Code  of  Ordinances  for  the  City  of  Mobile, 

BY  HON.  ALEX  McKINSTRY. 
One  Volume,  8vo.,  Sheep $4  00 

Rev.  Dr.  P.  P.  Neeley's  Sermons. 
For  the  use  of  the  Cavalry  and  Mounted  Infantry  C.  S.  A. 

BY  MAJ.  GEN.  JOS.  WHEELER. 

Bteiee's  Btie.&adl  M&atry  TaetkSj 

Two  Volumes,   24mo ' 

SILAS  MARNER:.The  Weaver  of  Raveloe. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  ADAM  B£DE,  Etc. 

HORIZONTAL  PLOWING  AND  HILL-SIDE  DITCHING, 

■      BY  DR.  N.  T.  SORSBY,  of  Ala. 
One  Volume,  Pnr.i  r, /"•••. 

CU»lUnROWS   SPEEE1JYG  BOOM. 
no.  EiRST  READER* 

no.  SECown  REJinEU. 


Its  from  abroad  are  respectfully  requested  to  give  Distinct  Direc 
tic-US  of  their  PoBtotlices,  Landings,  or  Railroad  "Static 

S.  H.  G-OET^EL,  Mobile,  Ala. 


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